


The Haunted Love Story

by Squaresville



Series: A Different Point of View [4]
Category: Arthur (Cartoon)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Autumn, Backstory, Canon LGBTQ Male Character, Character Death, Declarations Of Love, Depression, Drama, F/F, F/M, Flashbacks, Foulmouth Francine, Grief/Mourning, Halloween, Humor, LGBTQ Female Character, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Tragedy, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2020-10-04 07:35:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 90,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20467370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squaresville/pseuds/Squaresville
Summary: Sequel to THE SECRET KEEPER. Prunella delivers a message to Alan from beyond the grave. Can Muffy help him deal with the fallout? Chip stumbles upon seemingly harmless but baffling new information about his father. But is there more to it? And with all the surprises Buster has experienced this year, could there be even more in store for him? See notes.





	1. The Lydia Pages

**Author's Note:**

> This series now has a title: A Different Point of View. In the future, I plan to edit the existing titles to reflect this.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing.
> 
> Series title credit goes to SpongeGuy.

_This is where we climbed the tower, this is where she fell_

_Then when her young heart stopped beating, I went to hell_

—Alice Cooper

_October, 2007_

"Nigel, you know I support you in all your aspirations, but I really think you've taken things too far this year."

A worried Patrick regarded his husband, who had been looking more distressed with each round. It was the day of the annual Elwood City Fall Carnival, and the couple stood mere feet from the cake walk circle, where Nigel had played and lost the last eleven rounds. He had purchased one hundred and fifty dollars in tickets, a fact Patrick had just found out.

"Wouldn't you agree this is a tad extreme? It's just a cake. We can buy one from any bakery on the way home."

Nigel stared back at him wildly.

"_Just_ a cake? Just a _cake_? I thought you understood, Pat. Mrs. Wood doesn't just throw her Auntie Opal's Never-Tell Bundt Cakes around willy-nilly. She only bakes them for fundraisers and her family's Thanksgiving dinner. She is the only living person who knows the recipe. That's why it's called 'Never-Tell'. The secret is passed down in the family through a Last Will and Testament. It is the most sought-after dessert in Elwood City. He who possesses it possesses the crown jewel of the carnival."

For someone who had only tasted the cake once, his husband knew quite a lot about its lore. That would have been impressive had it not been so sad.

"If it's the crown jewel of the carnival, why hasn't a winner selected it yet?"

Nigel leaned in and lowered his voice conspiratorially.

"I'm playing with a gaggle of newbies."

"Newbies? Did I hear you right?"

"Look at them. Youngsters. Green, every last one. They are taken in by flashy icing, dazzled by cheap, meaningless sprinkles, thus overlooking the unassuming Bundt."

Patrick had to admit he had a point. The little brown glaze-coated cake sitting off to the side of the prize table had nothing on the other, more remarkable-looking desserts. Had Patrick won, it would not have been his first choice. Then again, he was a chocolatier, and he knew most people ate with their eyes first, himself included. No wonder Auntie Opal's cake had gone unnoticed. Since it did not look like much, it must taste incredible. Nigel must have thought so, otherwise he would not have been so consumed.

"That's my advantage this year. All I have to do is stay in the game long enough to win, and it's mine."

"Or you could describe it to me. What does it taste like? I bet we could find something similar. I have a pretty big circle of confectioner friends."

"It would be a pale imitation," Nigel said, shaking his head. "Anyway, I can't describe it. It's simply…indescribable. If ever there existed a testament to its greatness, it would be its ability to stunt my vocabulary. It's a delicious riddle wrapped in a mystery inside a gooey, delectable gla—how can you say it's _not_ the crown jewel of the carnival, Pat?"

"Okay, we're getting a bit overly-dramatic here. I really think it's time we went home and got some rest."

Nigel bristled.

"By 'we' you mean 'me'."

"Well, yes. I'm not the one on the verge of a hissy fit over baked goods. Seriously, Nige, I love you more than anything, but this is the one time of year I wonder why we didn't date longer."

Nigel clasped his hands as if in prayer.

"Please, let me keep going. This is my year. I'm close to winning, I can feel it."

Patrick felt sorry for him. For Nigel's sake, he hoped he was right.

"All right," he said soothingly. "But this is the last year you spend this kind of money on a cake walk. You have to know when to let go, hon."

"Bless you."

Nigel backed toward the circle with springy steps, smiling, ready for round twelve.

The players started walking again, and "Sugar, Sugar" by The Archies blasted from the speaker in front of the scorekeeper's table.

Unbeknownst to the men, they were being watched from the sidelines by a different couple.

* * *

"Everyone says he's obsessed," said Alan Powers.

He was speaking to Lydia Fox, whom he had accompanied to the carnival.

Originally, Alan had volunteered to help his mother run a booth at the event to promote the three new "cone-crete" flavors she had concocted for fall, to be served at the ice cream shop all season long. It was only after Lydia called him three days ago that his plans changed.

"Do you want to be my date to the carnival Saturday?" she had asked.

Alan had wanted that, and he answered without a moment's hesitation.

"Okay."

"_Okay?_" she said playfully.

"Yeah. Okay."

"Well, then…okay!"

They had shared a laugh over their inside joke before Lydia signed off with, "See you Saturday!"

When the call ended, Alan had broken from the spell he was under, instantly remembering his prior commitment, and he dashed to the living room to find his mother. She had not been upset when he humbly asked to go with Lydia instead. With the hint of a knowing smile, she had told him to have fun and not to worry about her.

And now here they were, Alan explaining Mr. Ratburn's history with Auntie Opal's Never-Tell Bundt Cake.

"He first tasted it five years ago. Mrs. Turner-Mills won it in a raffle, and she let him have a slice. Every fall he makes the circuit, trying to win. Every raffle, every cake walk, and every bingo, but he's never been successful. So, as the legend goes, it's become his white whale."

"And he used to _teach_ you?" said Lydia with an air of skepticism.

An anguished cry rang out from the circle, and they looked toward the commotion.

"It's my white whale!"

Once again, Mr. Ratburn had failed. A young girl around the age of ten left the prize table, holding the infamous Bundt aloft proudly. She continued to the sidelines, where she handed the cake over to an elderly woman, likely her grandmother, who gave the girl a hug in return. Meanwhile, Mr. Ratburn looked crestfallen.

"On average, he was far more composed in the classroom."

"Hmm…" said Lydia, as she watched Mr. Ratburn leaving the game.

His head hung low as he walked side by side with his husband, who consoled him with gentle pats to his back.

"I guess some people are better at hiding their crazy than others."

"Um, yeah, I guess…" Alan said nervously. "Well, what's next? What would you like to do?"

He did not mind letting Lydia make the decisions. She was more into this kind of thing than he was. As a self-professed "Halloween nerd", Lydia had shown up decked out for the carnival in an orange sweatshirt with a giant black jack-o'-lantern face printed on it. Around her neck was a black cord necklace, the pendant of which was a skull that flashed in alternating colors. Alan was less than festive in his forest green sweater, but at least he was warm and comfortable on this cool and cloudy day.

Lydia glanced around.

"Hey, check it out! Let's do that."

She was pointing in the direction of an elaborate purple tent perched atop a small hill. It was Prunella Deegan's Tent of Portent. Alan could not stop the disgusted noise that escaped his mouth.

"Oh no, Lydia, you can't be serious."

"Of course not, but I want to go in anyway. Help me?" she added sweetly, batting her lashes.

For so long, Alan had felt as if he were fighting a losing battle in trying to express his romantic interest in her. He had not wanted to come across as clumsy or, worse, desperate, so he decided subtlety was the best course of action. She would appreciate the skill and restraint when all was said and done. He had tried to send her signals as artfully as he knew how. He supposed he could have done better, but there was no way he would have sought advice on how to improve. His feelings were private, between Lydia and himself. Everyone else was irrelevant.

It had taken some time. A couple of months ago, after years of failure, Alan had finally thrown caution as well as subtlety to the wind, and he executed the single bravest act of his life. And it had worked in his favor. Lydia had been caught off guard at first, but she was receptive to him. It was as if Alan had flipped a switch that rolled back some unseen barrier between them. Since that day, it had been easier to be more open with her about his feelings. Lydia had become increasingly more brazen and flirtatious around him as well. They had surpassed their greatest hurdle. Now all that was left was to see what the future held for them. Sometimes the anticipation of this future together gave Alan shivers.

Alan helped Lydia up the hill, hoping all the while they would not have an accident like they had the last time he had helped her. Fortunately, they made it unscathed. They entered the Tent of Portent, stopping just inside to get a good look. The inside was just as purple as the outside. Everything was bathed in a smoky haze smelling strongly of patchouli as incense burned on one of the small pedestal tables that stood in each corner. On the tables were clusters of white and purple candles in varying heights. Warm glowing fairy lights and swags of gauzy fabric adorned the ceiling.

_The only way this could get any cheesier would be if she served a wheel of brie._

Alan had not verbalized this thought, but he mentally congratulated himself on its cleverness.

At the center of this mess, sitting at a table covered with a purple and silver star-patterned tablecloth, was Prunella. She had draped herself in shawls that, in reality, looked as if she had raided her mother's sideboard for more linens. She was also sleeping. She slouched in her chair, head drooping to one side. She donned a pair of earbuds attached to an iPod laying atop the table, along with another white candle and her crystal ball. She dozed on, unaware of their presence.

Lydia coughed loudly. Alan could not discern whether she had done it to get Prunella's attention or because of the smoke. The wannabe mystic startled awake, steadying herself before she slipped out of her chair.

"Ah! Jeez!" she said, yanking out the earbuds.

She looked to Lydia and stood quickly, adopting a placid expression.

"Ah, what have we here?" she said in a dramatic, ethereal voice. "A young woman, wishing to know what the future holds for her, and—oh… Hello, Brain."

Her expression had fallen once she had seen him, and her voice flattened at the end of her greeting.

"Your Omnipotence."

Alan greeted her with a nod, his voice laden with dry sarcasm.

"Good evening, you two," she said, going for the dramatics again.

Alan pushed up the cuff of his sweater and checked his watch.

"It's three-fifteen," he said. "Hardly evening."

Prunella turned up her nose slightly. She pressed on, and it was obvious that she was trying her best to ignore Alan. She turned to Lydia.

"I sense it is you who made the decision to come here. Come closer, dear."

Prunella had sensed no such thing. Everyone knew Alan was an infamous skeptic, especially Prunella. Over the years, Alan had occasionally gone out of his way to expose her quackery, much to Prunella's dismay. Given their history, it would not have been difficult for her to deduce that he would not be interested in this sort of activity.

Lydia was trying to suppress a smile. How could someone as smart as she be such a mark for something so hokey and devoid of intelligence? He could feel his IQ lowering just watching the scene play out.

"Actually," Lydia said as she rolled closer to the table, "I was wondering if you could do us both. Have you ever done that, a joint reading?"

Alan tried to shoot Lydia a why-are-you-doing-this-to-me look, but she was not paying attention to him. Instead, it was Prunella who gave a quick, nervous side-eye in Alan's direction.

"I—I—of course I could. But you'll both have to pay individual tickets. The spirits are working for a worthy cause today."

"Oh, none for me, thanks," Alan spoke up, waving a hand as if he were refusing dessert after a giant meal. "I'm fine with not knowing."

Lydia snorted.

"Now there's a lie if I ever heard one," she said to him over her shoulder.

She turned back to Prunella and said in a loud, exaggerated whisper, "He secretly wishes he knew _everything_."

There was a playful smile behind her voice.

"I think he would very much like for you—er, the _spirits_—to give him some insight," she said, handing her tickets to Prunella. "Right, Alan?"

Giving in this easily surprised him. Then again, had it not been for Lydia, he never would have stepped foot inside this tent. Alan rolled his eyes.

"Fine. Whatever," he said, digging into his front pocket.

He withdrew a handful of tickets, counted the proper amount, and gave them to Prunella. He took his place next to Lydia and stood there.

"Sit down, please," she mumbled, and Alan begrudgingly complied, taking the chair usually reserved for clients and crossing his arms.

Prunella took a seat directly across from them, giving her trailing shawls a flick as she did.

"Now, let's see…"

Prunella slowly waved her hands over the sphere, back and forth in a fluid, semi-circular fashion. She gazed into it, pretending to see something beyond its surface.

"Let's see…" she said again. "Who is M?"

"I'm sorry," said Lydia. "M?"

"I see the letter M. The first initial of someone very important to you."

Lydia thought for a moment then shrugged. Ten seconds in and Prunella was already striking out. Alan could not hide his satisfied smirk.

"Wait—it's becoming clearer. The M is turning into a…a J. Someone by the name of…James, possibly."

"Oh, that would be my grandpa," Lydia said enthusiastically. "James Keegan, but I call him Grandpa Jim."

"Yes, James Keegan, that's exactly what I was about to say. Your Grandpa Jim. I sense this is a living person…"

Prunella had not exactly phrased it as a question, but she had not stated it with much confidence, either. She let her words hang in the air as she pretended to concentrate on the crystal. After a moment, she cut a glance up to Lydia as if she expected her to say something.

"…or possibly one who has passed on."

"Yes. Grandpa Jim died when I was eight, one year before my Grandma Olivia."

"That must be why I'm also seeing an O," said Prunella wisely. "Grandpa Jim's spouse?"

"Yes, she was."

"Of course. That's how I was reading it. These images can be murky at times, but they are coming into focus…I see them standing next to each other."

"Are they doing anything?"

"They are…beckoning."

"Beckoning?"

Lydia sounded confused.

"Uh, or waving. Yes, waving. That's what I see. They are waving to you from the beyond. They are happy and send their love. I see something else…a jack-o'-lantern…a bowl full of candy…they remember how much you loved Halloween."

That was not much of a leap for Prunella. Alan would wager that a stranger could tell Lydia was a Halloween fanatic based on her outfit alone.

"That's true," Lydia said. "I trick-or-treated at their house every year."

Alan sighed, a bit louder than intended. How could she buy into this?

"You spent a lot of time together…"

She left it hanging again.

"Uh, yeah. We had lots of fun."

"I see fun and games…board games. Checkers…"

"Chess, actually. Grandma Olivia taught me the game when I was very young. She was a two-time state chess champion. She even left me an—"

"Yes! That's it, exactly!"

Prunella looked as if she had stumbled upon a goldmine.

"I see a chessboard between the two of you, hours spent learning strategies…"

"Oh, brother," said Alan, well above a whisper. It had just slipped out.

From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed Lydia turning to stare at him. Ahead of him, Prunella looked up, a murderous gleam in her eye. She took one deep, dragging sigh, as if she were mustering the strength to remain calm.

"And you…" she said to him.

There was a dangerous edge to her voice. She peered into the sphere again.

"I almost forgot this was a _joint_ reading. Let's see… Oh, this doesn't look good…"

No way would he give her the satisfaction of inquiring.

"It appears as if fate does not favor you. I see…tears. Many, many tears accompanying your _past_…"

Alan felt a fleeting moment of horror. That part had some truth to it; Prunella knew that well. They had been in kindergarten together. Had he not been too emotionally stunted to complete the grade the first time, Alan would be in the seventh grade along with her. Instead, he was still a sixth grader at the age of thirteen. This was a sore spot for him and he did not like talking about it, about being held back or all the crying he had done. There was no way he would have told Lydia. He doubted she would find his weakness appealing. Was Prunella about to tell her? Alan held his breath.

"…and accompanying your future. I see a great and terrible sadness in store for you, Alan Powers."

Alan exhaled slowly. It was just more of her hokum.

"A future filled with untold darkness and fear and—"

"Consider my spine effectively tingled," Alan said dryly. "You wouldn't happen to know where I could purchase a magical talisman to ward off all this untold darkness?"

"The spirits have closed themselves off to our realm," she snapped. "They are offended by all the negative energy in this space."

"Are you sure it isn't the cheap incense?"

"I grow weary," she said through gritted teeth.

She stood and pointed toward the tent's entrance.

"You should leave now. Perhaps you'll find satisfaction at this carnival in a more material form, like a candied apple."

As Alan helped Lydia get back through the tent's entrance, Prunella spoke up one last time.

"Just one more thing, Brain."

Alan turned to her, nonplussed.

"Beware Halloween."

"I'll keep that in mind, Prunella."

They exited the Tent of Portent. As soon as they were back at the bottom of the incline, Lydia took control of her wheelchair.

"Well, that was intense," she said tersely.

They were back on the main path. Alan followed her, unsure of where they were going.

"Idiotic," said Alan. "That's what that was. I can't believe you actually wanted to go in there. Surely you know that there are no such things as psychics."

"Oh, _thanks_, Alan."

Her voice was higher than normal, vibrating with tension.

"Next you'll tell me ghosts aren't real. Maybe I'm not a moron. Maybe I'm just a geek who wanted to do something a little spooky and atmospheric during my favorite season. Maybe I thought you could humor me, turn off your brain for five minutes, and have some fun."

"I was mocking pseudoscience," he said defensively, "so it wasn't a complete loss for me."

Lydia stared at him for a long moment before turning and rolling herself in the direction opposite the one in which they had been heading.

"Where are you going?" he said, and a wave of regret rose in his chest, telling him he had messed up, instantly making him wish he could rewind the last fifteen minutes.

"Lydia?"

"I'm going to find Mom and Dad and Brandon," she called over her shoulder, speaking of her parents and one-year-old brother. "Obviously, I made a mistake when I invited you."

They had not been together long, and now he had blown it. He had lost her, possibly forever. He started after her, unable to temper his panic.

"Lydia, no! Wait! I'm sorry! Okay? Please?"

Lydia stopped, and so did Alan. He was afraid to approach her, not without some sign that he was welcomed near.

"I'm sorry I ruined your fun. I really am. Please, come back. I'll buy us funnel cakes and we can start the day over again. I'll do whatever you want, and I'll keep my words to a minimum."

Slowly, she turned. Her expression was still dour.

"That was inconsiderate of me. I guess actively trying to have fun was never an objective of mine from the start."

Alan was tempted to hold back, but this was his last-ditch effort. He did not want the regret that would stay with him if he did not say it, so he pressed on.

"As long as I'm with you, that's really all I need."

They were in a standoff. He stood, anxiously awaiting Lydia's reply as her severe eyes bore into his. The side of her mouth twitched. She broke into a fit of snorts and giggles, slapping her knee in her mirth.

"Oh, wow! Was that—hee-hee—was that ever _lame_. But—heh-heh—also kind of romantic, you know? In your own special way…"

Alan's knees could have buckled from the shocking sense of relief.

Her fingers crept underneath the rim of her glasses and wiped her eyes, now brimming with tears of laughter. She headed back toward him.

"I had to get you back for that, at least a little," she said lovingly. "You had me at funnel cakes."

Minutes later, Alan and Lydia sat at one of the sticky red portable picnic tables, each enjoying a funnel cake from the nearby food truck. Lydia's was topped with a mound of strawberries and whipped cream, while Alan had opted for cinnamon-sugar. The air was filled with the inviting aroma of fried dough, powdered sugar, and fall. The patchouli incense was all but forgotten.

"Yum," Lydia mused after downing a huge bite. "This is the tastiest apology anyone has ever given me."

"Yeah…"

Alan cut his funnel cake into several bite-sized pieces with his fork while he thought carefully about what he should say next. Lydia placed her hand on top of his, briefly squeezing it before pulling away.

"What you said about minimizing your words… I don't want that, you know? I just want you to chill out a little."

"Sorry," he mumbled. "Challenging inane practices has always been one of my biggest compulsions. I should have been more respectful."

"No biggie. I forgive you. Check it out—we survived our first fight. Pretty exciting, huh?"

Alan nodded.

"Speaking of fun and my ability to have it…"

"Terrible segue," she said, "but go on."

"I'm going birding next Saturday morning."

Lydia's expression brightened.

"Oh? The place where we…"

"Um, no."

Heat crept into his cheeks, and he felt warm under the collar. The memory could still do that to him when it caught him off guard. It had been an important day.

"I'm going to the marsh instead… Would you like to go?"

Lydia concentrated on spearing a strawberry.

"Maybe. Will you let me rag on it the entire time we're there?"

She barely got it out before grinning widely.

Alan had a feeling she would not let him forget what happened in the Tent of Portent. As long as she was happy while she did it, that was fine by him.

"I'm just kidding," she said. "I'd love to go."

She put her fork down and snatched a piece of his funnel cake. She popped it into her mouth and winked at him.

The heat was gone. A shiver ran up his spine instead, and it felt wonderful. As far as Alan was concerned, she could never provide him with enough shivers.

* * *

_October, present day_

Alan sat at his desk. It was a mild and sunny Saturday afternoon, and he was spending it indoors, staring at his pocket journal, trying to determine if the thinning of its bulk was noticeable. He had removed several pages from it lately, and he would prefer his therapist not inquire about it. He regretted purchasing a journal with a spine. Had he instead selected a spiral-bound one, the pages would have been a cinch to remove, not to mention easier to clean up. With this journal, every time he tore a page out, little ragged paper tufts remained, protruding from its creases, tasking him with digging out the evidence. He always did this with his lab tweezers, careful not to mar the pages. Was covering his tracks necessary? Perhaps not, not unless Dr. Paula wanted to see his journal up close for some reason. She never had. He usually read aloud from his journal. There was always a chance it could end up in her hands, however. That was a risk he did not want to take.

Alan was thankful, for a change, that his mother had told him to stay home today. The Elwood City Fall Carnival had come around once again. As a small business owner and purveyor of a popular dessert, she would be there all day, promoting her newest cone-crete flavors, as she did every year. Alan had spent several of those years helping her. The last time he had been to the carnival was two years ago, when he had gone with Lydia. The time they had spent together that day had been one of their last before her passing, and he had no desire to relive the memories. Why bother? It only made him long for something he could not have. He had written this sentiment down in the pocket journal a few days ago, and then he had promptly ripped it out.

He had done this several times since, begun a page with a thought about her, only to remove it.

_Would our future have felt longer if I had told her sooner?_

_Rip!_

_Does everyone feel like this when they grieve, or is it just me?_

_Rip!_

_Should I apologize for the way I behaved?_

_Should I have gone to the funeral?_

_I didn't go, and her parents still gave me her chess set. Why would they be so kind when I did nothing for them?_

_Rip!_

_Rip!_

_Rip!_

Alan thought of these as the Lydia pages. He had not thrown them away. Instead, he had kept them in the middle of his copy of _Brief Answers to the Big Questions_. That had to mean something. Surely he would show them to Dr. Paula eventually, when he had the strength, the courage. When he thought about the pain it would stir up, Alan felt almost feverish with dread. Knowing that confrontation was necessary to the healing process did not make things easier. Maybe when this horrible season was over…

_Once the anniversary passes, I'll show them to Dr. Paula. I just need time to mentally prepare._

He could do that. He had plenty of time on his hands these days. Since his breakdown, the day he had caused a scene at the library and rushed home to break into his shop, Alan's parents had been stricter about how he spent his time. They had demanded that he go on hiatus from work and all extracurricular activities.

"Just for a few weeks," his mother had said as the three of them sat together on the sofa, "until you've taken some time to rest."

If they had thought this would ease Alan's mind, they had been mistaken. He had panicked, pleading his case to them.

"No! I can't! I made a promise to Muffy. If I don't help her, she could get into serious trouble. Please, it's imperative that I tutor her."

His parents had shared a nervous, skeptical look.

"I'm begging you. This is for my wellbeing, too."

_She's the only friend with whom I can converse freely._

Perhaps he should have said this, but he already felt too exposed. It was far easier to waffle and tell half-truths.

"I can't be idle. I need something. I—I need a purpose. Just let me do one useful thing?"

They had conceded on the condition that, if at any point Alan felt overwhelmed, he would relinquish his tutoring duties.

The sessions with Muffy had become his new sanctuary. He felt occupied, and he felt less alone. Not that they spent a lot of time discussing his trials and tribulations, but knowing that she knew about them and still accepted him made a difference. Muffy had even been exceptionally nice to him since that afternoon in the cabin of her limo, where they had both come clean about their struggles. Each trusted the other with their biggest secrets. They had a different kind of friendship now, positive and supportive, and he could hardly believe it was real.

Aside from Muffy, schoolwork, and therapy, Alan had nothing going on, and he was bored. Perhaps he could complain about that in his journal. Perhaps Dr. Paula could help him work through the aggravation it caused him. He put his pen to the paper, wondering if he could get enough material down to take up an entire hour of therapy, when his phone rang, playing his favorite Buddy Guy song.

"Hi, Binky."

"Hey, Al," Binky said in a raised voice. "Me and the guys are at the carnival."

Alan could have gathered that from the background noise.

"Give us your twenty so we can meet up."

"Um, I'm not actually at the carnival, Binky," he said. "I was too busy this morning."

"Not here. He says he's _busy_," came Binky's distant voice, apparently holding the phone away so he could relay the message.

The unintelligible voices of Arthur and Buster could be heard as well as a couple of groans before Binky was back.

"That's too bad. You missed it! Ratburn finally had a _meltdown_. Well, if you're not still busy at five-thirty, we're gonna go to Loring Cinema and see _Slice to Meet You_."

"So be there if you wanna have a life!" Buster yelled in the background.

"Later, Al."

Alan checked the clock: a quarter after three. He did some mental math. He had approximately five minutes to decide if he wanted to go. After that, he needed another five to text his parents for permission.

They would likely consent. It was just a movie, and friends were not exactly off limits, just anything that would cause undue stress.

Then he needed another twenty to shower, change, and brush his teeth. He would need to arrive early because, even though Binky had said five-thirty, that was likely the movie's start time and not the meetup time. Binky often missed this detail, and Alan had learned to factor in extra time. If he arrived by five-fifteen, he would have an hour and a half to spare, plenty of time for a leisurely stroll to the cinema.

Now, to decide how badly he wanted to go. He did not, not really, but he weighed the pros and cons. The only con he could see was that he would be forcing himself to do something. There were, however, a couple of pros. The fresh air would be good for his brain, and so would the change of scenery. He remembered something Muffy had said:

_"Then promise me as a _ _friend_ _ that you'll hang out with the boys the next time they want to include you."_

Could he try it, just this once?

"…_it'll be good for you."_

Alan groaned wearily.

"Nothing ventured, nothing gained, I suppose," he muttered.

Alan pulled up his contacts and shot a text to his father.

**Binky invited me to the movies this evening. May I go?**

While waiting for the reply, he rose from his chair and went to his closet, preparing for his shower. As he made his selection, he paused.

The chess set was buried in here somewhere.

No. He was not going to think about that anymore today. He was going to hang with his friends and chill out, or at least attempt to. The Lydia pages could wait. Alan had just withdrawn a pair of jeans and a sweater from the closet when his phone chimed.

**Yes. Have fun and be safe. Please check in.**

_Please check in._ That was a new request. It made Alan feel like a child, though he understood why they asked it of him.

**Thanks. I will.**

At the very least, this evening could give him something new to write about in his pocket journal, something that stayed within the confines of its cover.

He draped his outfit over the back of his computer chair so he could take care of the page he had ripped out today.

_Why can't I look at the chess set?_

Alan picked up the page without reviewing it, placed it inside _Brief Answers to the Big Questions_, and closed the book. He grabbed his bathrobe and left his room.

_To be continued…_


	2. The Crosswire Early Release Program

"I don't know what you guys were expecting from a PG-13 horror movie," said Francine Frensky, who had just taken the last sip of her orange soda.

She placed her glass down in the middle of the table.

"And with a title like _Slice to Meet You_—please. At least tell me it was funny."

"Not even ironically," said Alan, who was halfway through his Bubsy Burger.

It had been twilight when the movie let out, and although Alan had planned to go straight home, the guys roped him into going to the Sugar Bowl with them. Since he distinctly remembered eating breakfast but could not recall whether he had eaten lunch, he decided it was in his best interest to make sure he had dinner. As a plus, the extended outing could provide him with more material for his journal. As another plus, the night had not been so bad. Hanging out was just the same as ever it had been, even though he felt at times as if he were a shadow following his friends from point A to point B.

Francine and Ladonna had been sitting at the counter when Alan, Binky, Arthur, and Buster entered the Sugar Bowl. After finishing the plate of nachos they were sharing, they wandered over to the boys' booth, their jackets tucked into the crooks of their elbows, whereupon they were treated to complaints from the guys, who had hated the movie just as much as Alan had. Usually, he was considered the wet blanket in these kinds of situations, and it was refreshing to hear someone else point out how nonsensical the story had been. He had felt comfortable enough to speak up after Francine's rebuke and decided to carry on.

"It was a predictable slasher flick that was riddled with plot holes and reliant on jump scares as opposed to graphic depictions of horror. And I highly doubt that a scantily-clad sixteen-year-old could have traversed such a dense forest at a run while wearing wedge heels."

It was quiet. Why was everyone staring at him?

Buster, who was sitting next to him, put his second Bubsy of the evening down onto his plate next to the accompanying mountain of onion rings. He regarded Alan with an endeared smile.

"Aaand, he's back, ladies and gentlemen!" he said, slapping Alan on the shoulder. "Alan Powers is in full effect."

Alan was not sure about that part, but he was at least trying.

"Gosh, Alan, that's the most I've heard ya say in forever," said Ladonna.

"He's not wrong, though," said Binky. "That movie was an eighty-five-minute bore fest."

"Sucks to be you guys, I guess," said Francine smugly, throwing a thumb toward Ladonna. We're waiting on Muffy."

"Muffy's coming here?" said Alan.

"Only to pick us up. We came here because we were starving and needed a snack before we left. Ladonna and I left the carnival early so she could help me select photos for _The Frensky Star_."

Francine's camera bag was still strung across her body, and she grasped the strap protectively.

Was Alan imagining things, or had Ladonna stolen a quick glance in Buster's direction? She appeared to suppress a smile and looked down as if deep in thought.

"She also convinced me not to publish pictures of Mr. Ratburn's freakout," Francine added, much to the guys' disappointment as a couple of groans issued from the group.

"My dad says ya should never rub salt in someone's wounds," Ladonna said, breaking her pensiveness. "Lord knows I wouldn't want one of my lowest moments immortalized on the Net."

"And now my effing decorum is going to cost me views. Anyway, I asked Muffy to pick us up here instead of my place."

"Don't tell me," said Buster, sounding glum. "You're having another girls-only, aren't you? I bet it's something amazing."

"Actually, yeah!" Ladonna gushed. "Sorry, Buster, not tryin' to gloat, but—"

"We're going to the Trifecta of _freaking_ Terror!" said Francine.

"What's that?" said Alan.

"You've never heard of the Trifecta of Terror?" said Binky. "Wait—never mind. Forgot who I was talking to. It's the highest-rated Halloween haunt in the state, Al."

"Try _in the United States_," said Arthur. "And it's one of the largest."

"Sooo many awards…" Buster said. "It's in Ingram, not too far from where my dad works."

Buster switched to a voice reminiscent of one a radio announcer might employ in a commercial.

"One night, three haunts! Be there, and _be scared_!"

"I can't wait to go through the Mutation Maze," Francine said, "It's full of lab creations gone horribly wrong, and it has only one escape route."

"And there's the Coulrophobia Funhouse," said Ladonna, "full of chainsaw-wieldin' clowns. So many people are gonna scream during that one!"

"You're forgetting the _best_ one!" said a bright and familiar voice.

Muffy had entered the Sugar Bowl unnoticed and managed to creep up behind Francine and Ladonna, startling them.

"Thanks to the popularity of _Deadlight_ and its upcoming movie, the haunt coordinators were inspired to overhaul the zombie attraction this year!"

That explained Muffy's outfit. Over a pair of black leggings she wore a black oversized graphics tee bearing a picture of Jude Pendleton as his _Deadlight_ persona. The name "Richard" was superimposed across the zombie teen's fashionably-dressed torso in glittering green font. Muffy had used a green patent leather belt to gather the shirt at her waist, giving it a more dress-like appearance. She completed her look with a cropped jacket made of distressed denim lined with black faux fur.

"I mean, they don't have the licensing to copy _Deadlight_ exactly," she continued, "but based on early reviews, it's supposed to reflect the spirit and mystique of the series."

"Which means it's going to be boring as f—"

Francine stopped short when Muffy shot her a look. Surprisingly, instead of treating her best friend to a tirade on how _Deadlight_ was the greatest story in history, she cracked a smile.

"I've missed this, Francine."

Francine looked dumbfounded at first, regarding Muffy with a cockeyed expression, only to come around after a moment's thought.

"You know what? Me too."

"I dunno," Buster said. "I still think it all sounds cool. Now I really wish we hadn't blown all our money at the movies."

The looks on the guys' faces seemed to reflect Buster's sentiment.

"Don't worry," Muffy said. "You're all invited to my Halloween party next weekend."

The guys perked up at this even though they still looked envious over the Trifecta of Terror.

"So, are we ready to go?" Francine said, handing her camera bag to Ladonna so she could put on her jacket.

"Soon," said Muffy. "Slight change of plans. Fern is meeting us here. In the meantime, I need to ask my tutor a serious question."

She turned to Alan and wrung her hands nervously.

"Can we talk outside? School stuff."

* * *

"_That's_ what you wanted to ask me?"

Muffy had lured Alan outside under false pretense. He had followed her to the alley entrance at the side of the Sugar Bowl. It was dark now with a last-quarter moon. It was also chilly, and Alan shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans, bracing himself against the breeze. As soon as she had made sure that they were alone, Muffy had asked her question.

"You _are _coming to my party, aren't you?"

This is not at all what Alan had been expecting. Judging from her expression when she had asked for privacy, he figured it had something to do with Muffy's early release from her punishment.

He had found out about this Monday morning, when Muffy all but tackled him as he arrived at his locker.

"I did it!" she had squealed in his ear as she hung off his shoulders. "I'm free!"

"Free?"

Alan could not help his confusion. As he understood it, Muffy was grounded until the next progress report came in, which would not be until November.

"Well, sort of," she said more calmly as she let go of him. "I negotiated with Daddy yesterday. I asked him to lift my punishment early. In return, I wagered him that not only would there be a marked improvement on my progress report, but the next report card would be straight A's. If I fail, he can double my punishment."

"Wow. That's a bold wager."

"I know. I wasn't sure if Daddy would listen to me, but he said he admired my guts and self-assurance, and he took me on! That means I can hang out with my friends. That means I can visit Chip. Tonight!"

She looked so happy that he almost hated to break it to her, though it was necessary.

"That's great, Muffy, but you know…you're transitioning from a period during which all you had was time to study. Going forward, your attention will be divided. It's important, now more than ever, that you stay focused."

Muffy had straightened up to her full height.

"Oh, believe me, I know," she said as she readjusted her handbag and backpack, both of which had slipped off her shoulders in her flurry of excitement. "I've got everything to lose all over again. I don't want that. And thanks to our sessions and the Study Buddy prog, I know you won't allow me to lose my focus. Will you, Zen Master?"

Alan shook his head.

"Absolutely not."

Muffy offered her fist.

"Blow it up," she said with a huge smile.

Alan bumped fists with her, and they ricocheted off each other with outstretched fingers.

"Oh! I almost forgot—I get to throw a Halloween party! But... there's a catch. Since I'm technically still supposed to be grounded, Daddy added a stipulation to our deal: I have to stick to a _budget_."

She said the word as if it were foreign to her, probably because it was.

"That means I'll have to skimp on some things, and _that_ means I'll have to get creative if I want my party to be great. I don't suppose you could help me figure some things out?"

As Alan thought about it, the warning bell before homeroom chimed overhead.

"I'm no party planner, but I'll try my best."

"Thanks! See you later!" she said, turning around. As she took off for her homeroom, she exclaimed, "Oh, everything seems so much more beautiful when you're free!"

Here in the light of the street lamp, Muffy still looked as happy as she had since Monday, though she was now trying her best to appear innocent as she defended herself.

"It's just that…I've talked about my party all week. We've even worked on it together, but you haven't, you know, expressed any interest. And I haven't been able to gauge your feelings about it, either. Seriously, you're like Fort Knox sometimes… So, _are_ you?"

Muffy had talked about her party a lot, but Alan had taken it as normal gushing due to her excitement. He had no idea she was being subtle and that he was supposed to have expressed enthusiasm as well. Muffy was normally a forward person.

Alan should not have felt pressured now. Muffy was just asking, and she probably meant well. But he could not help it. He did, just a little.

"I don't know," he said. "Why is it so important that you're asking me now?"

"I need a head count, for one. My budget, remember? For another, it would make me happy if you were there."

She waved a hand toward the Sugar Bowl's front window.

"Look at you. I'm proud of you for getting out, for doing this. So why stop here? Costumes are optional, if that's a deal breaker for you. You don't even have to stay the whole time. Just say you'll show up."

The back of his neck prickled from the night air as Muffy playfully poked him in the shoulder.

"Come on, _say_ it."

Perhaps he could humor her. He took her advice on hanging out with his friends tonight, and that had not been so bad. It had not made him unhappy, either. Maybe he could gradually ease into some form of normalcy. He thought about the journal; he thought about the certain pages he was trying to avoid. He pushed it from his mind.

"Okay. I'll…probably show up. That is to say I _will_ show up," Alan was quick to add once he saw Muffy's reaction to his uncertainty. "I don't know if I'll be in costume, but…yeah."

"Great. It's going to be fun! I promise!"

She stared at him for a couple of seconds.

"Would you like a ride home?"

"Do I look desperate for an escape?"

"You don't, actually, but you _do_ look cold. Where's your jacket, Mr. Weather Charts?"

Alan was actually shivering.

"Initially, I hadn't planned on staying out this late, but in a peculiar turn of events, I wound up here because I'm not having a terrible time. However, I admittedly left unprepared. My bad."

"Sorry I'm late!" called a breathless voice.

Alan and Muffy turned to see a harried Fern slowing down her quick pace as she approached.

"I would have let you pick me up, but I needed to get away from Mom. We've been at the carnival all day, and I spent half of it listening to her go on and on. She was trying to devise a strategy on how to handle the Ratburn problem next week, when she runs the cake walk for MCM. She even tried to circumvent the situation by trying to talk Mrs. Wood out of baking the Auntie Opal cake. It's been _tedious_."

Fern looked relieved to have gotten that off her chest.

"Relax, Fern. You have perfect timing," said Muffy before turning back to Alan.

"We leave in five if you want that lift."

Alan nodded.

"Give me a sec. I'll get Francine and Ladonna for you, too."

Alan hurried into the Sugar Bowl to bid the guys a good night and thank them for the invitation. He informed Buster that the remainder of his Bubsy Burger was up for grabs, and Buster snatched the food off the plate before Alan had completed his sentence. He rushed back outside to pile into Muffy's limo along with everyone else.

"This seems like an unusually small group for a girls-only," he said thoughtfully while he buckled his seatbelt.

The limo took off down the street.

"It is smaller than usual tonight," said Muffy, "but the gang's not all here yet. After we take you home, we still have to pick up Jenna and Sue Ellen. Oh, and before we drop you off, we'll pick up Prunella."

Alan suddenly found it difficult to swallow. Despite still recovering from the intense chill, he found the limo was becoming a little too stuffy. He cleared his throat.

"Um, did you say _Prunella_?"

_To be continued…_


	3. Scheming and Dreaming

Prunella was glad she had not seen Alan at the carnival today. She still remembered what a royal jerk he had been a couple of years ago. Thanks to middle school and now high school separating them, she had experienced little to no interaction with him since then. Their most recent interaction happened during her phone conversation with Muffy a few weeks ago, which he had rudely interrupted and cut short. It had reminded her just how grateful she was for the separation. He was the same old Brain. What a killjoy he could be.

She had been baffled earlier tonight upon boarding the limo and finding Alan sitting next to Muffy. Prunella had paused to look him up and down, before saying, "I thought this was a girls' night."

"It is," Muffy said. "I'm just taking Alan home."

Prunella did not get it. She thought Muffy hated Alan after the library blowup, but now she acted like he was her new bestie. She could not imagine what had sparked such a turnaround. She doubted it was because Alan was fun to be with. But there they sat, conversing quietly over Muffy's phone, Alan smiling at something he saw and nodding approvingly. The trip to his house had been short and, true to Muffy's word, he had made his exit there.

It was nearly eleven o'clock now, and the limo was making its way back into Elwood City. The Trifecta of Terror had been quite the spectacle, and the girls were still chattering about it twenty minutes after leaving.

"Just admit it, Francine," Jenna said, pointing at her, "The maze scared the crap out of you."

Francine and Ladonna had been going through her camera roll. Cameras had not been permitted inside the haunts, but she had taken tons of group photos and candid shots with the gruesome props as well as the costumed scare-actors that roamed around just outside the event's gate. At Jenna's accusation, Francine looked up, and Prunella thought the way her longer hair framed her face was quite pretty, even if Francine was rolling her eyes.

"Oh, BS. I wasn't…that scared," she said.

Francine had most definitely been that scared. When trying to decide who would go first in the group, Francine had boasted, "I'm not afraid. I'll do it if none of you have the _chutzpah_."

Apparently, Francine had not had it either, for she shrieked every time she rounded a corner, often swearing afterward. Muffy shrieked whenever Francine shrieked. She had been second in line, clasping her best friend's shoulders for dear life, the two looking like the world's shortest and most terrified conga line. Everyone else filtered through the attractions hunkered together with permanent winces plastered to their faces, anticipating whatever might be lurking around the bend, jumping and yelping at the appropriate times. The only true exception had been Fern, who strolled through the haunts with the casual demeanor of a museum spectator. She was caught off guard only once by an animatronic raccoon mutant that popped out of one of the lab cabinets. She stumbled, but she quickly regained her footing and carried on.

"Wasn't Zombie Manor just magical?" said Muffy, leaning forward in her usual spot in the limo's cabin. "You could tell a lot of inspiration for the banquet hall was taken straight from the corpse buffet scene in _Deadlight_. In fact, I think _I'll_ take inspiration from it, too, for my party's punch station."

"You know what you should do?" said Fern. "Instead of using regular chocolate in your chocolate fountain, use white chocolate and dye it red to imitate the blood fountain. I mean…not that I _liked_ those books or anything, but that scene was pretty captivating in its imagery."

"Oh my _god_, that's a terrific idea, Fern! Okay, everyone—if you've got any ideas for my party, let's hear them! I'm entering crunch time, and I'm open to anything that might help me pull off a show stopper."

Prunella spoke up.

"Hey, Muffy, do you think you could include one of those sensory mystery platters? You know, like spaghetti for guts and peeled grapes for eyeballs. That way there'll be more ways for Marina to participate."

Marina had been on her mind half the night. She had not been at the carnival either, opting to attend an extra gymnastics practice instead. Prunella missed her.

Muffy thought for a moment, her expression softening.

"You've got it. Not only can I do that, I think it's just what the buffet needs to push it over the top. I'll talk to Alan about it. I'm sure he can come up with even more gross sensory stuff—stuff I would never think of in a thousand years. I honestly don't know how I would've gotten this party off the ground without him. First, he saved me a DJ fee when he installed software on my laptop. It'll help me control the playlist as well as sync lights with the music. Then he drew up specs for a homemade fog condensing system. Bailey is in the process of putting it together. I would have spent so much more on equipment rental, and now I can put that money into hors d'oeuvres."

"Well, thank the Lord for Alan!" said Ladonna, giggling.

"Hear! Hear!" said Jenna, high-fiving her.

_Alan, Alan, Alan… _thought Prunella. Muffy sounded as if she were the head of his fan club.

It took everything she had not to cross her arms in disgust. She knew she was still sour over the Tent of Portent, but she could not help herself. She had good reason to be. Just because Alan knew the ins and out of everything scientific did not mean he understood how everything worked. Some things were beyond most minds. Sure, he might think that, too. He _was_ a conceited genius, after all.

But this was different. Some things could not be known or understood _that_ way; they simply had to be felt, sensed, perceived. When one opened up to other realms and unseen entities, understanding would come to that person. No amount of academic studies proving otherwise could slay what she knew deep down.

True, she had never successfully made contact with spirits or even managed a correct prediction, but that was likely because she had yet to master her craft. She just needed to practice more, to remove her self-doubt. Spirits were put off by negative emotion and non-believers. At least, that is what she had been taught. Once she did that, she would be able to shut the naysayers up, particularly Alan Powers.

And since when did he go by his real name?

Oh, it would make her day if she could shut him up. It would probably make her year, maybe even her life. As she sat a moment longer, stewing over the boy who had constantly mocked her spiritualistic pursuits, a spark of inspiration hit her.

_He's no great shakes either, even though he acts like he has a handle on things. _

She had known him since kindergarten, well, the first time around, back when he used to cry all the time. For someone who was supposedly intelligent, he could be unbearably fragile. He cried about everything, and it had held him back. His mental prowess had not been able to rescue him from his emotional weakness. She bet he was still sensitive, just better at keeping it in check these days.

But what if there was a way to tap into that vulnerability, to freak him out a little? If she found just the right angle to play, maybe, just for a split second, she could make a believer out of him. It might even make for a fun Halloween prank. Was there anything she could use? She was sure there was. The wheels in her head turned as the minutes passed. There were definitely some instances from Alan's past she could exploit, only how would she do it? When would she do it? She thought she knew the answers to those questions.

"Hey, Prunella!"

Prunella snapped to reality to find Muffy waving a hand in front of her face.

"Didn't you hear me? We're here."

Muffy gestured out her open window toward the Deegan family home, its porch light glowing, awaiting her return. It was then when she realized that she and Muffy were the only ones left in the cabin.

"Where did everybody go?"

"They went…home," Muffy said with a grin. "We dropped them off. You were miles away, so he _must_ be really cute. That happens to me sometimes when I think about J-Pen."

How had she managed to lose track of so much time? Had she really been that immersed in her plan?

"Oh, right. I was so spaced. Thank you, Muffy. But before I go, do you have time to hear one more suggestion for your party?"

Muffy rolled the window up and turned to give Prunella her full attention.

"Hit me," she said.

"I know this might sound a little far out, but I was thinking it might be fun to hold a séance…"

* * *

Alan sat in bed, finishing up his journal entry on the evening's events. He was almost done. All he had to do was skip the unpleasant part about how Prunella had threatened to trigger his memory of what happened in the Tent of Portent. That had been roughly two years ago today. What a coincidence that he would wind up in her presence again and stir his thoughts. And speaking of coincidences…

"_Beware Halloween…"_

He had ignored those thoughts as well as Prunella as best he could by trying to keep Muffy's attention focused on plans for her upcoming party, which had been easy. Everyone talked among themselves in the cabin. Fern complained about her mother to Sue Ellen while Ladonna listened intently as Jenna grilled Prunella on high school life. Muffy used her Infinity to show Alan pictures of the progress Bailey had made on the fog condensers, stopping briefly for Francine to stage a photo, filling the cabin with a blinding flash of light. It had only been a three-minute drive, but it had felt like an eternity.

Alan wrote on:

_Although I had no initial desire to participate in tonight's activities, I do not regret going through with it. As with most things lately, taking the first step seems to be an insurmountable hurdle. Presently, I feel as if I could do it again, easily; however, tomorrow I might feel as hesitant about it as I felt mere hours ago. Tonight is over, and I have a positive feeling about it, almost as if I have survived something. I am unable to ascertain what that "something" is, but it feels like some sort of obstacle rather than simple anxiety._

_I suppose I could think of tonight as a primer for next week. Muffy browbeat me into going to her Halloween party. That's unfair. She needled me into it, albeit in a nice way. She said that my being there would make her happy. I wonder if she was simply being charitable. She is capable of being extraordinarily nice sometimes, so that might explain things. I say this because it is difficult to imagine a scenario in which any party could be improved by my presence. She promised that it would be fun. I do not know how long I will stay, but I hope it goes well._

Alan snapped the journal closed, thinking that the last sentence sounded surprisingly optimistic despite all the pessimism that preceded it. Before putting it away, he regarded the journal, its diminutive size, its hard, glossy black cover that was beginning to show signs of wear around the edges. There were no pages to remove tonight. To be sure, there was still a plethora of painful and embarrassing thoughts inside the book left to be examined, but it was nothing he could not force himself to handle. He had left the things he could not handle in another place. Was that a victory? He put the journal on the shelf next to his bed alongside his phone, turned off his lamp, and settled into bed.

Faint moonlight filtered through the gap under the partially-drawn shade, casting a weak glow onto furniture and illuminating outlines, while the rest of the room remained bathed in a blue-gray hue. Warm under the covers, Alan drifted, wondering if Muffy and the others had fun at the Trifecta of Terror. He was sure he would hear all about it soon.

There was a sharp, hissing whisper.

"_Is this the thanks I get?"_

Alan's eyes sprang open and he raised his head from the pillow.

"Huh? What?"

For a second, Alan thought maybe his mother had come in to check on him, to tell him goodnight, and he had misheard her. He surveyed the dark room, but all he saw were the same outlines. His door was shut. Everything was still, quiet.

He was sure he had heard something.

"Mom?" he said softly, just in case she might still be nearby.

No one answered. He sighed and tried to get comfortable once more, eager for drowsiness to take over. He was almost there when a muffled, rustling series of bumps issued from behind his closet door. Great. Something had fallen over. There was so much stuff in there it was a wonder why it had not happened sooner. Whatever it was, he would find out tomorrow.

There was no time to get comfortable again. There was a rattling noise, and the sight of its source made Alan sit up in alarm. Moonlight gleamed off the handle of his closet door as it twisted, first in one direction, then the other. The twisting became more persistent as the seconds passed. Whatever was on the other side, it lacked the dexterity to open the door properly. Or it was toying with him.

_Whatever_ was on the other side? What was he _thinking_?

What was he _seeing_? That was the better question because, like it or not, this was happening right in front of him.

He should stop staring and turn on a light. As he reached for the lamp, the rattling stopped. There was a brief moment during which the only thing Alan could hear was his breathing. The lamp felt too far away now. It was at least a six-inch reach over the edge of his bed. His phone, however, was right next to him on the shelf. There was no risk in leaving the safety parameter of his bed. As slowly and stealthily as he could, Alan reached up to retrieve his phone. He would use the camera light as a flashlight. Before he could, the reflection on the doorknob moved again as it turned fully, whatever was on the other side operating it with a sure hand. Alan's breath hitched, and he froze.

The door flung open, providing a wide birth for the large and amorphous dark mass that tumbled out of the closet and onto the floor with a solid thud. Someone heard that, Alan was sure. His parents would come to his aid. But they did not. Alan sat in his bed, squeezing his phone, while the mass sat on the floor, silently undulating with the appearance of choppy sea waves at nighttime. They were in a standoff. The mass had no discernible face, but Alan could tell it was staring back at him, just as he could not take his eyes off the mass.

Alan made surreptitious movements, blindly trying to move through his phone's functions under the covers, until he was sure the flashlight was on. He needed to know what this thing looked like.

Why was no one coming to help?

As if it sensed Alan's intentions, the mass sprouted two arm-like tendrils and used them to move along the floor. It reached out, one arm at a time, then dragged its form, making no sound.

Alan found his voice, and it was high and full of panic.

"What? What do you want? What do you _want_?"

This only made the thing move faster. It passed over the edge of the rug and into the beam of light, but it still looked dark and formless save for its arms, which were slender, muscular, and had defined fingers and thumbs. Alan abandoned pretense and fumbled with the phone as the thing advanced on him. He managed to turn the light on just as it reached up for him, and when he finally illuminated the creature, what he saw, what he _thought_ he saw, was equally as disturbing.

He watched the thing immediately dissipate into a cloud of bone-white fog. Before it had, Alan had, for a split second, been able to see the thing's true form. It had unmistakably been a skeleton.

The whisper was right next to his ear.

"_This is the thanks I get?"_

"MOM!" Alan screamed. "DAD! HELP!"

Alan sat straight up in bed, gasping. His lungs felt starved for air, as if he had been holding his breath for as long as he could. Where was his phone? _Where_ was it? He had just used it, and now it was nowhere to be seen. He shot a hand out to turn on the lamp. The phone was not on the bed, nor had it fallen to the floor. There was something else. He looked to his closet to find the door firmly shut.

"What…in the world…"

"Alan?"

The bedroom door burst open and the overhead light came on. His parents were in the doorway, looking frightened.

"Honey, are you all right?" his mother said.

Alan pressed his palms to his eyes, feeling embarrassed. It all made sense now. He looked to the shelf where his phone lay just as he had left it before going to bed. He caught a glimpse of his clock. Six minutes after three. He had definitely been asleep.

His mother crossed the room with his father trailing closely behind.

"We could hear you screaming all the way in our room," he said. "What happened?"

"It's—it's nothing, Dad. I'm sorry. I was having a nightmare."

His parents shared a look. They did this a lot lately. His mother took a seat on the edge of the bed.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Oh, no, no," Alan said quickly. "It was inane. Juvenile. Monsters in the closet, that sort of thing. I feel really foolish right now. I'm sorry I woke you."

"Are you sure this evening wasn't too much?" said his father.

"It wasn't strenuous. I had a good time. This was just a nightmare."

"And you're sure you had enough dinner?"

"I had a burger," Alan said, wondering if they would demand a receipt. "Well…half of one. I caught a ride home with Muffy because I was cold, so I didn't get a chance to finish it."

Now that he thought about it, his stomach felt hollow and ached with a dull cramp. He probably should have eaten more before going to bed. It made sense that he would suffer such a horrible dream.

His mother stood.

"You should go have a snack," she said. "Do you want me to make one for you?"

"Please, Mom, I can manage," Alan said, getting out of bed himself. "Um, but thank you. Again, I'm sorry."

"Don't you worry, okay? Just get some rest. I love you."

Alan nodded and uttered, "Love you, too," as his mother kissed him on the cheek. His parents bid him good night and left him. Once alone, he pulled his MCM academic team sweatshirt from one of his drawers and put it on. His room felt so cold now.

He padded downstairs and had a satiating snack of peanut butter with cinnamon on toast as well as one of his mother's individual servings of cottage cheese. He was not keen on it, but he knew the protein would tide him over until breakfast. He made sure to use the toast, which was tastier by far, as a chaser. As he prepared and ate his food, it was impossible to scrub the whispers he had heard in his nightmare from his mind. They replayed in an endless echo. He shivered and figured that a mug of warm milk would not go amiss either.

Once back in his room, he found his iPod and played an episode of _Star Talk_, with Buzz Aldrin and Stephen Colbert as guests. He'd had already listened to this one, but it was nice to have different voices in his ears. In spite of how silly it made him feel, he opened his closet, just to check, only to find that nothing seemed out of place. Nearly an hour passed, and Alan was asleep again, this time with the light on, his closet door propped open with a sneaker.

_To be continued…_


	4. Marian the Librarian and the Music Man

"Did ya remember the picture?"

Francine met up with Ladonna early outside the MCM auditorium Monday morning. Both had auditioned for the fall musical, _The Music Man_, and they were eager to find out their parts before homeroom began.

Ladonna had been amped when she greeted Francine with the question, practically bouncing on the balls of her feet. She had already begged for a certain picture Francine had taken several times over the past week. Francine always had good intentions to print a copy for her, but every time she promised to do it, she invariably forgot. She grimaced at having to let Ladonna down again.

"_Balls_," she hissed as they made their way down the long, wide hallway. "Sorry, Compson. I got carried away, working on my costume for the party. I'll definitely, _probably_, get it to you sometime this week."

She could tell Ladonna was working to hide her disappointment.

"That's all right."

"Hey, if it's any consolation, I also forgot to charge my phone again."

"It's not the end of the world… Just don't forget about it, please."

"What's your obsession with that photo?"

"I just think it's really nice. He's gonna flip out when I give it to him. I can't wait to see the look on his face."

Francine smiled.

"You're right. He'll definitely appreciate it."

The main entrance to the auditorium consisted of two sets of double doors, to the left of which was a large, glass-incased corkboard.

The girls quickened their pace as they got closer.

"Ready to find out?" said Francine.

"Oh, I really don't care as long as I'm in it. It sounds like it's gonna be fun. But I'm sure you're gonna be Marian. I could hear you all the way outside the auditorium—you sang so beautifully."

"Well, I don't know, I just did my best and—who am I kidding? I can't fake modesty. I freaking crushed it, didn't I?"

Francine could sense someone catching up with them. When she turned to look, she saw Fern, hot on their heels.

"You're here early to get a look?" she said to them.

"You know me," Francine said. "Better to find out now. Don't want the anticipation to make me edgy half the day."

"I'm anxious, too," said Fern. "I just hope I get in. My audition felt like a disaster."

"Yes!" cried Ladonna, who had hurried ahead of them. "I made it! Mrs. Paroo and River City ensemble!"

She was still squeeing happily when they caught up to her at the board, Francine in the lead.

"I'm sure I got Marian," Francine said as she scanned the list. "I just wanted to confirm it and…screw a freaking _duck_…"

There was no way she was seeing this right.

"Oh, no," said Fern. "You didn't get it? Who did?"

Francine swallowed hard.

"You."

Fern's jaw dropped.

"Me? Are you _sure_?"

"This is horsecrap! I'm going to talk to Coach Sorrell right now."

Francine had only taken one step toward the door when Fern caught her by the shoulder and stepped in front of her.

"No, you're not," she said angrily as she yanked the handle, "because _I'm_ going to talk to her."

Fern spat "This is an outrage!" as she disappeared into the auditorium.

The two stared in stunned silence before Ladonna spoke.

"What'dya reckon that was about?"

"She agrees with me," Francine said simply. "Obviously."

* * *

Fern hurried through the auditorium to get to Coach Sorrell's office, mumbling all the way about how she could not believe this was happening to her. All she had wanted was a role big enough to stop her mother from harping on her for not performing, not the female lead. She had purposefully flubbed her way through her audition to ensure this would not happen. What was wrong with Coach Sorrell?

Fern needed her mother off her case, happy even, but she needed time just as much. She had recently begun her next book, _Around the Dark Corner_, a macabre and chilling tale about urban exploration. Fern had become thoroughly immersed in her new world and was enjoying her time with it. She even planned to venture out and do some more method writing, practical research that would help her with her description, only she was banking on a part in the play to solidify her good standing with her mother and ease her suspicions. Ever since her mother caught her breaking into the Baxter cottage, she had been harder to convince, demanding that Fern check in during outings with friends. Once her mother had even called Jenna while they were out for a jog, claiming that she had meant to dial Fern but made a mistake. Fern had known exactly what she was doing. As recently as Saturday night, she had done the same thing, dialing Muffy "by mistake" on the way to the Trifecta of Terror. It was going to be a slog to get her to forget that day at the cottage, but slog she must because nothing was going to stop her from being the best storyteller she could be.

Coach Sorrell's office was past the backstage area and down a small, dim corridor that connected to the music department. Fern came to an abrupt stop and took a moment to calm herself just outside a door that read:

**Theatre Arts Department**

**Melody Sorrell**

**Director**

Fern peered through the long rectangular window above the door handle to see Coach Sorrell moving about, placing a large black leather tote on a hook behind her desk. She was slight, a gray rabbit woman in her late-twenties. She was fond of sleek black clothing that matched her sleek black bob. She was also fond of piercings. There were several in her ears as well as one in her left eyebrow, a small silver ring that stayed mostly obscured by her blunt bangs. Fern had never had a teacher like her before, though Coach Sorrell's sort of aesthetic would not have been out of place in some of the other theatre groups with which she had performed. She had a cool demeanor, and she did not fluster easily. Fern liked her.

Fern normally would have knocked first and waited to be invited in, but she had neither the time nor the patience this morning. She knocked twice as she opened the door.

"Coach Sorrell? May I speak with you? It's important."

"Good morning, Fern. And congratulations."

Her voice sounded too coarse for someone her age, and it had a laid-back Californian drag to it. Fern had practiced this accent several times before, but it was hard to nail.

"Uh, yeah, about that… I think you've made a huge mistake."

Fern proceeded, even though Coach Sorrell cocked her head to one side as if she thought she had misheard. She did not look wide-eyed or shocked. She just listened.

"I don't think I did my best at my audition, and, really, I'm fine with a part in the ensemble. I've been gone for a while, so I think it's best if I ease my way back into the limelight. You should give Marian to Francine instead."

"I see. A little performance anxiety?"

It was not anxiety, not in the slightest. This was one of the few areas where she had complete confidence in herself. She was not rusty, either. She had not allowed that of herself. Though she had not so much as set foot on a stage since last fall, there had been plenty of opportunities and many inventive ways for her to use her acting skills, some quite recently. And her skills had served her well. Even so, Fern gave a tiny shrug and tried to look innocent.

"I didn't make a mistake, Fern. I chose the actor I thought would be best suited for the role. Will that be all?"

Fern sputtered.

"But, Francine—you've heard her voice, haven't you?"

"She has an awesome talent, but singing isn't everything."

"One might argue that it's somewhat crucial when putting on a _musical_," Fern muttered.

"I've seen you in numerous productions, long before you came to MCM. I won't ask you why you took your hiatus, but I will tell you that I'm thrilled to have you back. You're going to break a leg, I just know it."

Those had been her mother's exact words, as she stood eating pie with her family during parents' night. Fern felt like wincing.

"But…this isn't what I wanted."

"Look at it this way, then: now you know what failing upwards is like. But seriously, try to shake your nerves and give Marian a chance. Francine can be your understudy. If you're still unhappy in a couple of weeks, we'll talk about working you into the ensemble, okay? See you at rehearsal."

She had even sent her off with a wave, just like that. Upon leaving Coach Sorrell's office, Fern closed the door softly when she really felt like slamming it. There was an overwhelming urge to yell, or at the very least curse.

"Fuh-udge brownies…" she said under her breath as she made her way back to the auditorium. Now she had a couple of weeks to convince Coach Sorrell that she was not right for the part so she could get back to _Around the Dark Corner_. She thought she would be able to handle that part. The more daunting challenge would be preventing her mother from finding out she got the lead until her stint as Marian fizzled out.

Francine and Ladonna were gone when Fern made it out the double doors. There was a new group in front of the corkboard, Binky and Arthur among them. In front of the two boys stood Buster, who looked gob smacked.

"I can't believe it," he whined. "_Why_ me?"

"I warned you not to mess around," said Arthur.

Fern closed in on them.

"What happened?"

"Remember how Binky dared me to audition and sing 'Walking on Sunshine' as a joke, just to see how far I could make it before I was asked to leave? Well…"

"Coach Sorrell liked his audition a lot," Binky said, looking satisfied with himself. "Said she loved the energy and effort he put into performing and that he's got a certain _je ne sais quoi_. And I'm the choreographer, so I put in a good word for him. Sealed the deal."

Binky slapped Buster on the back, which shook the boy but hardly affected his daze.

"Congratulations, Music Man!"

"Music Man…" said Fern. "The lead? You're playing Harold Hill?"

"Not for long," Buster said, shaking his head. "I'm going to explain things to Coach Sorrell this afternoon and drop out."

"What?" Fern said, her voice reaching a high pitch. "Come with me."

She grabbed Buster by the sleeve of his jacket and pulled him to the right side of the hall.

"I can't believe you'd give this up, Buster. It's a pretty big deal to get the lead in a musical like this."

"I know, but I didn't sign up for it. There'll be way too many lines to rehearse. Way too many dance steps. It should go to someone who really wants it."

Fern thought quickly. She had to talk him into staying.

"Have you ever realized how successful you are when you don't even try?"

Buster was silent.

"Can't tell if that's an insult, or…"

"What I'm saying is that you follow your heart. You pursue happiness and do what feels good, and somehow it always seems to work in your favor. Like when you wrote Ernesto Del Rey. You were only trying to make me happy and repair our friendship. A lot of writers will spend half a lifetime working in earnest to get an agent to notice them, but you did it on your first try. And things worked out extraordinarily well for both of us. And now you've got the biggest part in the production simply by goofing off. It's like you have a gift. So, what I'm saying is, if Coach Sorrell thinks we're good enough to be the leads, maybe we should go with it, see where it takes us."

"You're the lead, too?" Buster said. "Noice. Not that I'm surprised. You really think I can do it?"

"I have total faith in you. If you'd like, I can even work with you between rehearsals, help you with lines or give you acting tips. Just don't give up without giving it a chance."

He looked like he was seriously considering it.

"I mean, well, if _you_ think I can… You're the best actor I know. Okay, I'll do it, or try, at least."

"I'm glad."

Something caught Buster's attention, and he pointed over Fern's shoulder with a quizzical look.

"Um, why is Francine giving us the stink eye?"

Fern turned to see Francine at the end of the hall. Her hands were on her hips, and she looked impatient.

"Does she need a reason?" Fern said to him. "I have to stop by my locker before the bell, so I'll see you later. Congratulations."

She had successfully diffused one situation. Now it was time to handle another.

"Well?" Francine said once Fern was in earshot.

There was only one way to play this.

"I tried," Fern said glumly, "but she said she isn't changing it. However, you're my understudy."

Francine gave a disgruntled huff and folded her arms across her chest.

"Look—I don't like it either, Francine," she said, trying to sound put upon. "I'm busy with my book, and I didn't want this much responsibility right now. But it appears as if we're just going to have to accept it."

Fern continued past her, heading in the direction of her locker. As she thought about what had just unfolded, a smile spread across her face. Francine was liable to remain sore about the turn of events for quite some time, but Fern was willing to accept it. Readily. She would have to put _Around the Dark Corner_ on the back burner for now, but was that really so bad? Besides, it was not as if she would have zero time to write, just less. She could live with that. The benefits of being in this musical would be well worth the small sacrifice, and those benefits had nothing to do with her mother. Right now, thoughts of her mother were nowhere near the forefront of her mind. Right now, it was all about him.

What a stroke of luck it was that both she and Buster would end up as leads. She was grateful for the foolhardy silliness that landed him in this predicament. She blessed the amount of stock he placed in her advice. There were opportunities to be had now that they would be spending a lot more time together. Right now, Fern could not be happier.

_To be continued…_


	5. Gooseflesh

"_There were bells on the hill_

_But I never heard them ringing,_

_No, I never heard them at all_

_Till there was you…"_

Fern sang softly to herself, the very song she would soon sing on the school stage, as she made herself a snack in the kitchen Monday afternoon. She had barely paid attention to her lunch today, having convinced Buster to sit with her so she could fill him in on all his role as Professor Harold Hill would entail and how important it was that he got it right. She had briefly caught Buster's glazed-over look as she rattled off the ways their performances could be aided.

"We could download the Broadway soundtrack from a few years ago, and we could get together and watch the movie version—Buster, don't look at me like that. You're going to do fine."

"I don't know... I gotta say, every time you tell me how important this is, the more I feel like wetting my pants in fright. I'm just not the smooth, fast-talking type, Fern. You've met me."

"I've also seen you recite comedy bits verbatim and reenact parts of your favorite movies, and do it _well_, so I know you know how to perform. It doesn't matter if you aren't suave. That's why it's called 'acting'. Rehearsal is tomorrow. I'll see what you bring to the table, then we can go over it afterward."

Fern smiled to herself as she absently scraped the last of the raspberry jam from its jar. It oozed out of the container and plopped onto the slice of bread she had already covered with peanut butter. She continued humming "Till There Was You" to herself as she smeared the jam onto her sandwich, unaware that her mother was home until she heard her speak, breaking her reverie.

"Good afternoon, Fernie," she said pleasantly. "Don't you sound chipper."

Fern turned to see her mother in the doorway. She was still dressed for work in a chocolate-brown pantsuit, accentuated by an amber pendant that hung from a slim chain around her neck as well as the Karabagli pin on her lapel, both in shining gold. She regarded her daughter with a happy expression.

"I take it the audition went better than you thought? What happened? Tell me."

Fern screwed the lid back onto the jar and licked her sticky thumb.

"Well…"

"You're smiling, dear…"

"Am I?"

Her cheeks hurt, now that she thought about it. How to explain to her mother everything she was feeling right now. She could not. But she could tell her what she wanted to hear.

"I got the lead, Mom."

"Oh, _Fernie_…"

Her mother closed the distance and swooped Fern into a tight hug, swaying side to side ever so slightly. It was a gesture that should not have felt as welcomed as it did. The embrace made her mother's words sound a bit muffled and smushed as she continued.

"Oh, honey, I'm so happy…for you. And to think, you were convinced you had become too rusty."

Her mother let go and gestured at Fern's sandwich with a dismissive flick of her hand.

"Put that away. Put it away! You won't want to spoil your dinner."

"But I'm hungry—"

"Hurry upstairs and change," she said, eyeing Fern's tunic, tights, and boots. "As soon as your dad gets home, we're all going to Pelle D'oca."

"On a Monday? What for?"

"Why, to celebrate. It's your favorite, isn't it?"

Pelle D'oca was a nice Italian restaurant that served some of the most delicious food Fern had ever tasted. It was a rare treat to eat there, but it was her favorite. She could not believe her mother remembered that. Her mother must have mistaken her stunned silence for displeasure.

"We can go somewhere else if you would rather—"

"No, no. You're right; it's my favorite. May I order the panna cotta with raspberry sauce?"

"Tonight, my leading lady, you may order _anything_ you want! Now, you go on. I'll take care of this," she said, opening the cabinet door and reaching for a small Tupperware container.

Fern nodded and left the kitchen for her room. She had known her mother would be pleased with the news, but she had not counted on getting the birthday treatment. If she could squeeze in a little work on _Around the Dark Corner_ before bed, then every single thing would be right with the world.

"Wow," she whispered to herself upon closing her bedroom door.

* * *

"If it gets any colder, Muff, we're going to have to take this inside," said Chip from across the table.

The two had spent the evening dining at Lucien's, their favorite restaurant in Belmont. Despite the cooler temperatures, the covered patio remained open. Warmth was provided for patrons by way of a giant stone fireplace roaring in the center of the outside wall, along with several umbrella-shaped propane heaters scattered here and there. Despite all this, it was still a bit too breezy, but Muffy would not trade the inside for this kind of ambience.

"The South made you soft. Welcome back to fall in the North," she said with a bit of defiance. "I'm just kidding. We'll sit inside next week. I just couldn't pass up this view."

From where they sat, the entire square was visible, and Belmont certainly was something to see in autumn. It was half past six on a Monday and, although the sun was setting, the square teemed with life. The storefront of the local farmers market was piled high with pumpkins and gourds in varying shapes, sizes, and colors. A few families with young children gathered around them, likely searching for the perfect jack-o'-lantern prospect. Streetlamps began flickering to life, and the fairy lights that adorned the skinny tree branches in the square park turned on. Everything from the shiny black benches to marble sculptures to the four-tiered water fountain that gurgled and splashed away benignly in the park's center was cast in a calming yellow glow. Leaves fell and blew across footpaths as couples strolled along, sipping warm beverages from the coffee shop. Another restaurant nearby had a live band on their patio, and the music wafted across the distance, playing lounge-y renditions of songs Muffy was sure she had heard somewhere before. It must have been their idea of an adult Halloween playlist.

"_Love is kinda crazy with a spooky little girl like you…"_ sang the sultry male voice.

She rubbed her forearms vigorously, trying to tame the gooseflesh underneath the sleeves of her sweater as the waiter placed their dessert on the table, two cups of Mexican-style drinking chocolate. She picked hers up but could tell it was too hot to drink just yet and set it down. She looked at her brother, who was contemplating his beverage, and something occurred to her.

"I have to know," she said, her voice exuding playfulness, "have you proposed to _Cat_ yet?"

Chip gave a soft "heh" of laughter.

"Have you always been this hilarious?"

He turned his jacket collar up to shield himself from the breeze and heaved a burdened sigh.

"It looks like I'll have to marry her if I ever want to see her again," he said, picking up the cup and cradling it. "And that's assuming she'd say yes."

"Uh-oh. What's wrong?"

"We had this awesome date last weekend. Everything was perfect. I did everything right, just like I promised her. And…I haven't seen her since. We've barely spoken to each other. We made plans to get together Wednesday night, but things fell through last minute because one of the horses got spooked and injured itself, running into a fence."

Chip was referring to Catherine's new job as a live-in caretaker at Tarver Ranch and Rescue. He had filled Muffy in on this new development in his girlfriend's life the week she had gotten her Infinity back from her father.

"It was just a small gash on its forehead—its going to be okay—but Cat had to wait for the vet. She was on call, so guess who took the backseat," he said, putting his cup down so he could point double thumbs at himself. "And before you say anything, I _know_ I'm the one who talked her into taking the job, so I really shouldn't complain. I just didn't realize how much this would suck. For _me_. Which reminds me…"

He retrieved his wallet, pulled out two tickets and handed them to Muffy.

"Maybe you can find someone who can use these."

Muffy examined the vouchers he had given her. They were for an event at the Botanical Gardens in Erie.

"What's the 'Splendor of Light Festival'?"

"It's a month-long event held every year. The Gardens are decked out with all sorts of glowing lanterns and lights."

"Lanterns? Like, in the _trees_?"

The idea of it sounded so intriguing.

"All over the place. That's my understanding, if the website is anything to go by. Those tickets are for the festival as well as all-inclusive access to a party at The Crest, the Gardens' rooftop restaurant. It was going to be so romantic."

It sounded romantic. The tickets likely were not cheap.

"She couldn't go…" Muffy mused sadly, dropping the tickets into her handbag.

"It was supposed to be a surprise, but I never got to ask her. I bought those before I found out she was traveling with Janice to a competition in Harrisburg that weekend. I can't refund them."

He sighed again.

"I know Cat would have loved it."

Muffy grinned at her forlorn brother.

"You are _so_ in love. I'm sorry your plans were ruined. I know you miss her, but it's only been nine days. I'm sure she misses you, too, and can't wait to see you again."

"I'm not so sure. I can't shake the feeling there's something she's not telling me, and it has something to do with her always wanting to keep things on the low."

"Well, she just wants to know it's right. Right? She sets weird rules for herself and she won't deviate from them. She's a little crazy like that."

"Maybe. Or…what if she's seeing someone else behind my back?"

Muffy thought for a moment then burst into giggles.

"Now who's hilarious? Catherine Frensky? I doubt Miss Straight-and-Narrow has so much as cheated on a test. Oh, I wish I could talk to Francine about this—she'd laugh until she cried."

Muffy supposed Chip could not help but be a little fearful. She knew that, after a drawn-out, off-and-on relationship with his college girlfriend Lexie, things came to an abrupt end when Chip discovered that Lexie had cheated on him. He had confessed it in one of his many, often profanity-laden, email rants. This very well could have given him a complex. Maybe that's why none of his relationships seemed to last. It certainly was interesting to think about.

"Relax, Chipwich. I think you're safe. This is Catherine we're talking about. It sounds like her job is pretty demanding, and you know how committed she is to it."

Chip stared at his cup, cradling it again.

"If it's not that, then it has to be me, right? There's something about me that's holding her back. It has to be my rep. I know she said it wasn't, but it _has_ to be."

"Your rep?"

"She knows pretty much everything about me and my history with girls, how bad I was at it."

"And she still got with you..."

"She got with me out of impulse, you know, the thing she isn't known for? What if she came to her senses and remembered how the old me used to be? What if she thinks she made a mistake and peaces out? Right now, I feel lucky, the kind of lucky that's so lucky it feels wrong, like maybe I don't deserve it. Like it could all go south any minute."

Muffy remembered a time when her brother was convinced that he could not lose at anything in life. It was shocking to see this outpouring of uncertainty and self-doubt from him. She remembered a time when he was consumed with getting a girl. Now all he worried about was keeping one, one in particular. And it was so precious.

"There's no way you would tell me this if you weren't looking for advice, or at least some reassurance. So here's what I think: You're scared. That's all. You've messed up before, and you've been burned pretty badly. And now you finally know what it's like to be with a truly good person. I don't need to get along swimmingly with Catherine to recognize her for what she is. She's good for you, you work as a couple, and now you're terrified you're going to lose her. But you're not the old you; you're the…_new_ you. Don't let her forget it. You'll work things out, I know it. Pretty soon, you'll be turning the jewelry stores upside down, looking for the perfect engagement ring. And while I'm throwing in my two cents, Catherine seems like the kind of woman who would appreciate a lovely pear cut set, or possibly a baguette."

He smiled wearily at her and said, "You've grown up so much."

"You tell me that every time I see you."

"I've really missed our times together, Muffler. Don't ever get grounded again."

"I won't," she said, picking up her chocolate which had cooled off enough to drink. "_Never_ again. You're not the only one capable of turning over a new leaf."

* * *

Alan ascended the stairs, home from his therapy session, which went well, all things considered. He had discussed his recent journal entry with Dr. Paula, particularly the apprehension that inhibited him from taking the leap and trying to do normal things again. He talked about his side project of helping Muffy with her Halloween party, and even joked about putting his knowledge to use purely for entertainment purposes. Dr. Paula had laughed with him and encouraged him to focus on the positive feelings he had experienced Saturday once it was all over, to try and harness them and be mindful of them whenever apprehension threatened him. It was a sensible idea. It was hard to be sensible sometimes when his anxiety rose, but it was something on which he was determined to work. That was why he was not going to think about promising Muffy he would come to the party, as if it were some sort of obligation. Obligation gave the party negative connotations.

_Therein lies the problem, Alan._

This was not some obligation set upon him by Muffy. This was not a chore. This was normalcy. He just needed to retrain himself to think that way. This was a party, and his friend wanted him to feel included. She wanted him to succeed. She had said as much. All he had to do was take the leap, show up, and bask in the positive feelings that would soon follow.

"_It's going to be fun! I promise!"_

Muffy was right. It was going to be fun.

_What could I wear for a costume? Wait—I'm actually considering a _costume_?_

Alan froze when he entered his room. There was still plenty of natural light streaming through his window, though the sun was beginning to set and the room was dark enough for the sliver of yellow light to catch his eye. Underneath the closed door, he could see that his closet light was on.

He had not dreamed of the monster again since that night, though he had thought about the dream a lot. Seeing the light brought everything back fresh, and a shiver ran up, prickling the back of his neck. He hurried to turn his overhead on, relieved to see the room awash with bright light.

_Careful. Be reasonable. You left it on this morning because you were running behind._

It was the most logical explanation. Still, he crept to the closet, held his breath as he turned the handle, and closed his eyes, just in case a skeletal hand slithered out of sight, back into a crevice in the closet mess. He wrenched the door open and waited. When he dared to look, he saw that the closet was the same as he had left it this morning. The sleeves of shirts and sweaters waved lazily, disturbed from the swift motion of the door, but they quickly fell still.

"I am so dumb," he said in a low voice.

He used a soccer cleat to prop open the door. It would be another night with the lights on, the third in a row. He knew it was silly, but he was not quite there yet. Everything, it seemed, was a work in progress.

Alan prepared to do his homework, turning up some music before he settled at his desk, just in case there were any bumps.

_To be continued…_


	6. Southern Comfort

Buster felt as if he could throw up. He stood backstage in the MCM auditorium, just off to stage right, peering around the curtain to watch Fern going through the "Pick-a-Little, Talk-a-Little" reprise with Francine, Jenna, and some seventh-grade girls he did not know well, though he recognized two of them as Vivian and Collette, the two girls who had started the rumor after walking in on him and Fern in the girls room.

"Chaucer!"

"Rabelais!"

"Ball sack!"

Maria Pappas quickly approached the stage from her seat in the auditorium, waving her arms to cut the music. Under the guidance of Coach Sorrell, Maria was serving as student director, and so far, Buster thought she had been doing a pretty good job. The upbeat piano tune fell silent as Arthur stopped playing.

Maria spoke up.

"Francine, again, th-that line is '_Balzac_', not…th-the other thing you said."

"Oh, really?" said Francine, who was not doing so well at feigning ignorance.

Despite some faint sniggering among some of the students, Fern looked annoyed as did Coach Sorrell, who still sat in her place next to Maria's seat, arms crossed. Coach Sorrell did not look overly-upset, but Buster could see her open her mouth to take a long breath. This was not the first time Francine had pulled the Balzac stunt.

Francine made an exaggerated gesture of slapping her forehead.

"Sorry! I keep forgetting. I'll get it next time."

"From the top!" Coach Sorrell called out.

"Yes," said Maria before heading back to her seat. "From th-the top!"

Buster noticed that Francine looked pleased with herself as she went back to her place. Whether she was simply being immature or was acting passive-aggressive for not getting the lead, Buster was not sure. He figured it was the former and not the latter since Francine had been relatively quiet since her letdown Monday morning. Or maybe he had been too wrapped up in his own worries to notice.

A quiet voice beside him gave him a start.

"Ya look awfully green."

Ladonna had shown up out of thin air, script in her hands, looking concerned.

"Ladonna, you scared me… I _feel_ green."

"What's wrong?"

"I'm not sure," he said in a low voice, rolling his own script into a tube shape and gripping it tightly.

Normally, he would try to brush it off and pretend he was okay, but her look was so sincere that it made him feel oddly safe, and everything tumbled out.

"It seems like a lot of stuff is wrong. I don't think I'm right for this part. You've seen me out there. I feel like I'm tripping over myself. I can't get my lines down, and when I do, I can't deliver them fast enough."

"Well, it's only been a week."

"That's another thing. It's the first week, and I'm exhausted. Fern says I'll be great as Harold, but she has 'notes'," he said while making air quotes for emphasis, "after every rehearsal on how to improve, everything from my posture to my 'lack of projection' when I say my lines."

"She's probably not wrong. A confident, fast-talkin' swindler would know how to carry himself. Do ya think maybe your lack of confidence is, I dunno, seepin' into your performance?"

"Who knows? If it is, I don't see how I'm going to fix that because I _don't_ have confidence in myself."

"Coach Sorrell chose ya for a reason. She seems like a lady who appreciates…different. I mean, she _does_ have an eyebrow ring. Think about it—what sets ya apart from everyone else who auditioned for the role?"

Buster shrugged.

"I'm goofy, gangly…and I'd do anything for a Klondike Bar."

Ladonna stifled a giggle.

"_And_ you're funny. Maybe Coach wants ya to inject a little Buster Baxter flair into the role."

"Yeah, maybe," he said, looking out to the girls on stage but not really seeing them. He was aware that Ladonna was looking at him, and he felt a familiar feeling in the silence between them, the same as the day they had eaten shrimp and grits on her back porch, the day he had trekked to her house in the rain.

"You're nervous about your dad, aren't ya? About him seein' ya in the play?"

His mouth hung agape as he turned to her, still trying to stay respectfully quiet for those on stage. He had not said this to anyone. He had barely acknowledged his true feelings to himself, and yet Ladonna had somehow decoded them.

"How?"

"C'mon, goober. It just makes sense, right? Ya wound up in this musical by accident, but ya don't think you're good enough. Ya want to give it a chance 'cause Fern thinks ya can do it, but ya feel daunted by the responsibility. Ya don't think ya can pull it together in time for opening night. And ya know your dad wouldn't miss it for the world. The pressure is on, and it's gettin' to ya."

"I would barf all over backstage if I thought it would help. I'm just not used to him…being around for things. It feels like I'm performing for someone special."

"That's 'cause ya are. But you've gotta let those nerves go. He's gonna think you're great no matter what ya do. You're normally so hammy. It'd be a shame to not see it shine through in an opportunity like this. Just relax and be more like yourself, the rest will come, and you'll knock 'em dead when it does."

Ladonna was being sweet, but Buster knew she was right. His father would never want him to feel pressured to wow him. He would just rather his son have fun. Maybe she was onto something, suggesting that he try to inject more comedy into his role. It might be worth trying, and it would certainly be more interesting. As the number on stage came to an end, he felt Ladonna nudge his elbow with hers.

"We're up. Just go out there and make yourself happy. You'll be fine, no matter what."

She gave him a wink. Buster nodded and smiled back. He glanced down at the script, still rolled in his hand, and unfurled it.

"S-Seventy-six Trombones!" called Maria. "Places, everyone!"

He and Ladonna walked out onto the stage and took their places along with the rest of the cast. It was time to put on a show.

_To be continued…_


	7. Get the Picture

"_Don't run away it's only me_

_Don't be afraid of what you can't see…"_

It was the night of Muffy's Halloween party, and music from her playlist blared throughout the mansion as she searched, making sure she had not missed him somehow.

_He said he would be here._

She nervously combed a hand through her wavy curtain of hair, which she had parted down the middle. She was dressed as Lola from _Deadlight_, donning the character's less-than-feminine outfit, consisting of a pair of ripped and faded jeans, boots, and a yellow plaid flannel over a cropped Cranberries tee.

She had lost track of time; the party had been going on for over an hour. It was only when she had talked to Prunella that it dawned on her.

"Are you ready to begin the séance?" Muffy had asked, interrupting Prunella and Marina who were deep into a loud conversation.

The best friends had both dressed as _Henry Skreever_ characters. She could not remember what Marina's was called, but she was a minor, obscure character, from the fifth book, if her memory served. She wore the signature school robes as well as a small topiary with tiny fairies glued to it for a headdress. It was clear, however, that Prunella had dressed as the Pigblisters librarian who moonlighted as a fortune teller, her style somewhere between boho and goth.

"Um, not yet," said Prunella. "I want to make sure all the guests have arrived. That way everyone who wants to can participate."

Was that why she had been craning her neck for the past fifteen minutes, surveying the crowd? Muffy just thought she was eager to get started. She was about to inform Prunella that they were an hour in, and everyone who was going to show up was probably already here when—

"Hang on. I'll get back to you…"

She had asked around, but no one had seen him yet. She headed toward the front doors. If she did not see him walking across the lawn, she would call him. Her Infinity was handy, shoved into her back pocket, which felt weird.

She slowed down as she exited the front doors, surprised to see her parents standing side by side at the foot of the steps, next to the circular driveway, still in their hilariously mismatched costumes. Her mother was dressed as Cleopatra, while her father was an Old West sheriff, complete with duster, hat, cowboy boots, and a shining gold star badge. When Muffy had first laid eyes on them this afternoon, she asked bemusedly, "Why didn't you do couple's costumes?"

"That was the plan," her mother had said as she readjusted her headpiece, "but we had a failure to communicate."

"Your mother forgot that I suggested an Old West theme," said her father as he, too, fidgeted with his costume, tucking his red cravat under his vest.

"And your father forgot that I said I would be a saloon girl over my dead body."

Now here they stood, huddled together in the cool night air. Her father's duster was draped over her mother's shoulders to keep her warm, and the two looked like a couple straight off the set of a dating gameshow that incorporated time travel. They turned to greet her as she descended the steps.

"Are ya looking for Alan, muffin?" her father said.

They each cradled a steaming cup of hot beverage, and as Muffy approached, the smell of spice and alcohol wafted through the air.

"Um, yes, actually. Have you seen him?"

"Oh, he's been here for a few minutes, dear," her mother said. "He asked to walk around back."

"Said he wanted to check out that fog contraption he designed. Boy, it sure works like a charm!" said her father, looking thoroughly impressed before taking a sip.

Muffy shook her head, smirking to herself.

"That nerd…" she muttered. "What are you doing out here?"

Her mother answered with a shrug, "Nothing much, just getting some fresh air."

"Oh, okay. Thanks."

Muffy left them, hurrying headlong into the fog as she rounded the side of the manor.

* * *

The Crosswires watched their daughter disappear. A few minutes earlier, the two had been trying to enjoy their mulled wine in the kitchen, opting to stay mostly out of the way while still surveying the party, making sure the young teens stayed reasonably well behaved. With few words, both Ed and Millicent had agreed to take things outside to get a break from the music, laughter, and occasional shrieking. Bailey, on the other hand, had been handling the night like a true professional, but he had also had the forethought to keep earplugs on hand should the occasion arise. Nothing could deter that man from his duties.

Ed sighed deeply.

"Either I've gotten old, or her parties get louder every year."

"They've definitely gotten louder, darling," said Millicent. "Chip's always did, every year, right up to graduation."

"Oh, I remember… Say, honey…about Thanksgiving…"

"Yes?" said Millicent, perking up.

She had been excited about Thanksgiving this year, throwing herself into the planning instead of leaving everything up to Bailey. For the past couple of years, they had followed a standard menu with little variation. Bailey was dependable and knew always exactly what to do, so there was never any stress over the holiday. This year, the Crosswire matriarch had been all in, discussing animatedly with anyone who would listen which dishes should be served, everything from the amuse bouche to the sides to the wine to the dessert. She had been glowing with happiness over the past few days, which made it even harder for Ed to bring this up.

"Maybe I should…spend the evening…out, let you and the kids have the house to yourselves."

It was clear that she had not been expecting that. Her eyes narrowed.

"_Why?_"

She never ceased to make him flounder when she wanted to.

"Well, I was just thinking that I— I want things to go well, so maybe I shouldn't be here."

"You don't _want_ to be here?"

"It's not that. It's not that at all. I don't— I know how important this is to you. I want you all to be happy, and if my not being here is what makes that possible, then…"

"I see. You're afraid of him."

"Please, Millie. I'm not afraid of him. I _made_ him… _What_ am I going to say?"

Her expression softened.

"Eddie, that you're even considering your words shows how far you've come. The fact that Chip _asked_ to come…it's huge. It's going to make such a difference. I want you, _everyone_, to be here. We're not better off separated. Now, don't worry too much about what to say."

She stopped briefly, turning to look at their daughter as she hurried back into the mansion with Alan Powers in tow.

"I'm sure something will come to you. Just try, that's all I ask."

Ed thought about it while he drained his cup, wishing he could be as optimistic as she.

The evening his son had shoved past him in the doorway still played on his mind, quite frequently, along with everything else from the past. Clapping eyes on him, for the first time since the frigid Thanksgiving they had spent together two years ago, had struck him like an arrow through the heart. There his son was in front of him, in the flesh, looking more mature and wearier than the fresh-faced teen he had been in college, and the change even a couple of years had made had stunned him, like a deer mesmerized by headlights. He could not find his words that evening. Before he could muster up a timid, "Hi-ya, Chipster," Chip was gone, greeting him, his father, not with a handshake, but by brushing past him and grazing his shoulder. It had been two years; surely he could have prepared for this moment. That night had been a wasted opportunity.

Tonight, it occurred to Ed that maybe he was afraid of his son, just a little, afraid of messing things up again, when his wife had so much hope for the family. One look at her, her eyes pleading with him, and he knew that she was right. They were not better off separated. They had not been better off for five years. He had to try, whether it scared him or not.

"For you, baby, anything," he said, reaching for her hand, bringing it up so he could kiss it. "I love you."

"I love you… Do you think Bailey has some extra earplugs lying around?"

"Wouldn't hurt to ask."

* * *

Muffy found Alan at the back of the house where sat one of the fog condensers. He stood, arms crossed, dressed in what appeared to be a dark suit, admiring the network of PVC piping that distributed the fog around the outside of the house. She had confidence that Alan's idea would work, but she had not been prepared for just how eerie the effect would be. Thick, low-lying fog seemed to emanate from the house and creep across the grounds. When combined with the fake spider webs, strategically-placed jack-o'-lanterns, and outdoor house spotlights, it was quite the scene to greet guests as they passed through the wrought-iron gateway of the estate.

Alan seemed impressed with it as well. In the dim light coming off the spotlights, she could see him smiling softly as he followed the flow of the fog, that is, until he caught a glimpse of her and said a quiet, "Hi."

"Better late than never!" she said incredulously. "I was actually starting to worry about you."

"Sorry I'm late," Alan said sincerely. "And I'm sorry I didn't say hello to you first. I just wanted to see it. Bailey did a great job. I'm not the biggest Halloween fan, but it looks fantastic out here. Appropriately spooky."

"Speaking of _appropriate_, what are you wearing?"

Now that she was closer, she could see that he also wore a silky golden tie along with a vest made of a celestial-patterned material.

"It's my costume, for lack of a better word," Alan said, holding the jacket open so that Muffy could get a better look. "I'm Neil Degrasse Tyson."

Muffy stared at him blankly.

"He's an astrophysicist, the head of the Hayden Planetarium in Manhattan. Have you heard of it?"

"You know I haven't," she said, smiling.

"Well, it's the best I could do on short notice. I wore this during a presentation for honors science last spring… Maybe I should remove the vest—"

"Don't you dare. I'm glad you're here."

She motioned for him to follow her.

"Come on. The party's just getting started."

* * *

Buster figured no one was happier for the séance to start than he was. He did not care about making contact with the dead, he was just grateful for the break. Not long after he had arrived, Fern had accosted him, dressed in a frumpy blue jumper dress over a gray turtleneck, claiming to be some deranged nurse character from one of Stephanie Bachman's novels. Buster had dressed as Shaun from _Shaun of the Dead_, complete with a cricket bat he had purchased from a used sporting goods shop. The conversation about Halloween costumes had quickly taken a hard left into the subject Buster had feared it would: the school musical.

"Oh, and don't forget we're getting measurements taken for our costumes on Monday…"

And she had gone on from there, talking incessantly about the play while Buster stuffed his face with a cupcake topped with a small pink brain made of icing that had been piped onto it.

It was great that she was so enthusiastic about the play, especially since he worried that she might have involved herself just to make her mother happy, but he also wished that maybe they could talk about something else for a change. He was debating on whether he should ask how her new story was going, or if he should ask if she had enjoyed the Bachman book he had given her, when Prunella happily marched through the dining hall, announcing that the séance was to begin in five minutes. Arm linked with Marina's, she motioned for everyone to follow her to the mansion's library, and the crowd of teens began to file out of the hall to pursue her, with Fern heading to the front of the line, likely eager to see anything remotely spooky. Buster purposefully hung back so he could be one of the last in line, and before he made it out of the dining hall, he saw Ladonna, dressed as a scarecrow, making a detour for the kitchen. Intrigued, he decided to follow her instead. He found her, sitting on a stool, licking the icing off an errant brain cupcake. She looked only slightly embarrassed to have been caught sneaking the snack.

"Hey," Buster said. "You're not going to stick around for the séance?"

"No, thanks. Halloween's fun, but I draw the line when it comes to conjurin' spooks. I'd rather hang out and eat more sugar."

"You know it's not real, right?"

"And ya know where I'm from, right? Trust me, ghosts are definitely real. Witches, too. Oh, I can't believe I almost forgot!" she said excitedly as she wiped her hands on a black paper napkin, "I brought ya somethin'."

"Cool. Is it fried pickles?" Buster joked as he got closer, placing the cricket bat atop the counter.

"Better."

"No way. Nothing's better than fried pickles."

"I mean, I can't exactly argue with that, but I still think this's pretty great."

He watched her reach into the collar of her costume, shoving her arm down all the way to her elbow and fumble around until she produced a large Zip-Lock bag, inside of which was a single envelope.

"Had to protect it. Didn't want it to get all sweaty," she said.

That made sense to Buster. Ladonna popped open the bag and dumped its contents onto the countertop. She threw the Zip-Lock into the trash can, then picked up the envelope and presented it to Buster in an exaggeratedly graceful and formal fashion.

"Here ya are, sir."

Buster chuckled at this, but his curiosity was so great now that he could hardly wait to see what the fuss over such a small envelope was about.

"Thank ya, ma'am."

He wriggled the tip of his index finger under the envelope's flap and methodically tore it open, millimeter by millimeter. Not knowing what was inside, he did not want to risk damaging it. What he withdrew was a glossy three-by-five photograph, one that had been taken by Francine on parents' night not long ago. Buster stared back at himself in the picture, flanked by his parents. His mother's arm linked with his, pulling him next to her, while his father closed in, arm thrown around his son's shoulders. All three Baxters were smiling happily. They looked well-practiced, as if they had posed for dozens of family photos, when in reality this was the first photo they had taken together since, well, Buster was not sure. He could not remember any of them, if any existed.

A curious feeling struck him. It reminded him of when he had stolen his parents' wedding album from his mother's storage locker. He kept looking at the album, over and over again, because the images within had a dreamlike quality. Everything he had seen was both familiar and foreign to him. He knew the people, but the scenes depicted were almost incomprehensible.

"Are ya touched?" he heard Ladonna ask, somewhere off in the distance. "You're touched, aren't ya?"

The photo he held now was also like a dream, the people familiar, the scene incomprehensible. Only that was not true. This was no longer a dream. This was very real.

Buster wanted to say, "Thank you, Ladonna." What came out of his mouth instead was a choked sob. He instinctively threw a hand over his mouth to prevent all subsequent, shameful noises. He squeezed his eyes shut; they burned as they filled with tears.

He heard Ladonna gasp softly, then breathe, "Oh, no… Oh, lord…"

How was it possible to feel this overwhelmed yet horrified at the same time?

"I gotcha…"

She led him by the wrist, the hand of which still clutched the photo, and he unseeingly followed.

"Buster, it's okay."

She was trying to fan him now.

"Breathe… I knew you'd like it, but I never figured on ya… Come to think of it, I guess it is the only reaction that makes sense."

Buster forced himself to remove his hand and open his eyes. As he took in his surroundings, the chill of the evening air, coupled with her fanning, cooled the tear streaks on his warm face. Ladonna had apparently taken pity on him and moved him outside to the patio, closer to the side of the house and away from the windows. She must have wanted to shield him from gawkers should anyone else enter the kitchen.

"I'm sorry," he said tearfully. "I wasn't expecting… God, this is embarrassing…"

"Nah…"

Ladonna used the tattered sleeve of her costume, which ended up being softer than it looked, to dry a stray tear threatening to roll down his cheek. She looked at him squarely and said, "You've got nothin' to be embarrassed about."

She patted him on the back.

"C'mon, let's get some air."

She walked and he followed, past the enormous pool, farther out onto the estate grounds. As they strolled through the burgeoning cherry orchard, the trees of which were dotted with ornate flickering lanterns, Buster tried to move past his humiliation.

"Where did you get this?" he said, holding up the photo.

"Oh, Francine asked me to help choose pics for her blog post a while back. When I saw that one, I knew ya needed it, so I asked if I could give it to ya. Took me ages of houndin' her before she finally printed one off."

She had thought of him first and wanted to save that photo for him especially.

"I… I don't know what to say."

"I think ya already said it. Just not with many words."

He was still having trouble with his words. As ever, Ladonna was doing fine with hers.

"I know what it's like to miss your dad," she said, "but I can only venture a guess as to what it would be like if he were gone almost always. And I have no idea what it's like to have a family that's divided in two. It must make ya feel all sorts of ways, probably not particularly good ones. I was always happy to see my dad come home, even after short trips away. I bet ya feel like your chest could burst, but that's just my guess. I'm so happy for ya."

_Like my chest could burst…_

"I do," he said. "I do. That's exactly what it feels like."

He sniffled and fought the urge to tear up again.

"Thank you for this. I've totally always wanted one of these!"

He barely managed the joking intonation. Emotion got the better of him, and Ladonna enveloped him in her arms with an, "Aw, come here". He hugged her back, and there they stayed until the overwhelming tide he was sailing finally ebbed away. How long it had taken, Buster was not sure. He had not been keeping track of time.

_To be continued…_


	8. The Séance

"And you're sure it doesn't look too silly?" said Marina Datillo, speaking of the topiary headdress she was wearing.

Prunella stood next to her as they hung out near the dining hall entrance, right next to Muffy's chocolate "blood" fountain station, each holding small plates piled with skewered fruit and cheesecake squares, all drizzled with the sweet red concoction.

When Marina had mentioned wanting to come to the party dressed as Selene Solemnoath, Henry Skreever's eccentric classmate, Prunella thought it was a great idea. In reality, Marina looked very similar to the author's description of Selene, both possessing fine brown hair, round, innocent eyes, a pale complexion and small stature. Prunella had jumped at the chance to help make Marina's costume dreams a reality. The trickiest part had been Selene's iconic Fairy Topiary headdress. It needed to look as book-accurate as possible, but it needed to be light enough for Marina to wear. Prunella ended up constructing the piece almost entirely out of carefully-cut and skillfully-painted foam save for the moss and battery-operated string of tiny fairy lights. Prunella had hollowed out the foam flower pot base in order to conceal the battery pack. She attached some crepe paper wings to the glowing fairy bodies with some hot glue and _voilà_. It was as if Selene had stepped off the page, except the real Selene never would have been this self-conscious about looking like an oddball.

"Marina," she said in mock exasperation once she had swallowed her mouthful of chocolate and white grapes. "You're dressed as _Selene Solemnoath_. It's kind of the whole point. Stop worrying."

There really was nothing to worry about. Truth be told, Prunella thought Marina looked adorable, almost to the point of distraction. Tonight, she had not even bothered to consider the implications the distraction might hold. Right now, she needed to be on the lookout.

Prunella had been impressed upon their arrival to the Crosswire estate. Muffy had not disclosed the amount for which her budget had been set. The sky was typically the limit when it came to partying Crosswire-style. Still, the mansion, both inside and out, looked like a Halloween wonderland. There were at least a dozen jack-o'-lanterns staggered along the foyer staircase, following its curvature so that all faced the guests, grinning at them through the slats. More jack-o'-lanterns were scattered throughout the house, clustered in corners or placed near fireplace hearths. Green spotlights cast antique furniture and priceless works of art in an eerie glow, aided by the multitude of burning silver candelabras. Satiny black and deep green streamers were hung everywhere, and the spread in the dining hall was as elaborate as ever. The buffet smoked and fogged from dry ice pots which had been tucked behind ornate floral arrangements filled with black silk roses, and a large silver platter of confections resembling various body parts sat proudly in the center, with the severed marzipan fingers appearing most realistic. Explaining the pageantry of it all to Marina had been difficult. Either Muffy's budget had still been far more than what the average person could afford, or she had done and incredible job of stretching it.

_What are you talking about, Prunella?_ she had thought as she ladled punch for both herself and Marina from an enormous silver bowl. _Don't you know _Alan_ figured everything out for her? He's amazing, after all. Is there anything that boy can't do? _

She spent most of her time watching for Brain, when she was not yelling over the music just to converse with Marina or catching herself in a daze over the way the flickering candlelight played across her friend's features, that is. The party had been going on for over an hour. Where was he? If she had gone through all this trouble for nothing, she would be angry.

Marina was in the middle of commenting on how good the cheesecake was when Prunella heard a voice in her ear.

"Are you ready to begin the séance?"

Prunella turned to see an eager Muffy, who also appeared the most un-Muffy-ish she had ever looked in her life, decked out in her Lola costume. So far, Brain was nowhere to be seen, so they definitely could not begin the séance.

"Um, not yet," she told her. "I want to make sure all the guests have arrived. That way everyone who wants to can participate."

Muffy smiled as she opened her mouth to speak, but she stopped short. Her face fell, her eyes darting back and forth as if she were thinking hard about something.

"Hang on. I'll get back to you…"

And Muffy was off. Around them, coming through the unseen speakers, "Dead Man's Party" was coming to an end, replaced by the intro to "Thriller". A wave of excitement could be felt in the crowd, and unintelligible yet enthusiastic chatter could be heard among them.

"Why are you putting off the séance?" Marina said unexpectedly. "This is your wheelhouse. I would have thought you'd be excited to start."

There was no way she would tell Marina the truth.

"I'm trying to mentally prepare," she said. "Séances can be draining, depending on how many spirits come through. There are a lot of people here tonight. This could get rough."

"Uh…huh," Marina mused. "Well, try the cheesecake. Maybe you'll get a sugar rush."

Suddenly, there was a raucous round of "GEORGE! GEORGE! GEORGE! GEORGE!" issuing from a crowd of partygoers.

"What's that all about?" Marina asked.

Relaying it back to her did not make it any easier for Prunella to believe what she was seeing.

"George Lundgren is doing the Thriller dance," she said loudly over the cheering. "And he's dressed as Michael Jackson in the video. And he's…really _good_."

"He's _all right_, I guess," said an unmistakable voice.

Apparently, Binky Barnes had heard her. He was standing near the hall entrance, too, along with Maria Papas. Maria was dressed as a 1920's flapper, while Binky donned all-black attire that included a long black coat and eyepatch. The outfit was familiar, but she was struggling to place it. Binky wore a sour expression, as if he were trying not to seem as impressed as he so obviously was.

"It looks like he's finally come out of his shell, though," Prunella offered.

"_Pfft!_ Not really," Binky said, rolling his eyes. "He's only doing it because his man crush told him to. As soon as this song came on, Buster said, 'Get out there and dance, George. You're dressed for the occasion.' I've never seen Antler Boy move so fast."

"You're forgetting something," Maria said to Binky with a small smile. "T-That Fern agreed with Buster and said it was a good idea. So, I would guess that it was George's _girl _crush that actually convinced him."

Prunella looked past the group that had now joined George in the middle of the hall, dancing along with him, to Fern and Buster who were standing in front of the buffet. Fern chatted animatedly about something, while Buster looked more interested in the cupcake he was eating than whatever she was saying. She knew that George thought a lot of Buster and that Fern and George had been friends for years. However, the George crushing on Fern thing was a revelation to her. How long had that been a thing? Was it just common knowledge among his peers, and Prunella had never noticed?

She did not have time to reflect on this new information further. Looking beyond Binky and Marina, there was movement in the distance. In the darkened foyer, there were two figures approaching the hall, a thin, feminine one with long flowing hair, the other tall and broad-shouldered. Muffy stepped into the brighter light of the dining hall, dragging Brain behind her by the elbow, and it felt as if her birthday had come early. Prunella snatched the plate out of Marina's hand ("Hey! I'm not finished!") and placed it, along with the plate she had made for herself, on the blood fountain station. She looked squarely at Muffy.

"It's time," she said, drawing a finger across her throat.

Muffy looked confused for a split second before realization dawned on her. She left Brain's side, disappearing for a few seconds. The music died down as Prunella linked arms with Marina.

"We're going straight ahead," she said.

The two walked toward the center of the hall and the crowd parted for them, looking around in confusion as if they wondered why there was no music. George seemed particularly let down that his act had been cut. Once there, she raised her voice.

"May I have your attention, everyone! For those of you who may not know me, my name is Prunella Deegan, and I will be conducting a séance this evening. All are welcome, as long as you come with an open heart and open mind. If you wish to participate, please join me in the library in five minutes for an unforgettable spiritual experience."

A murmur rippled through the crowd as Prunella and Marina exited the hall, and she could hear the shuffling of feet as partygoers began to follow her. She worked hard to suppress a smile.

Prunella had arrived an hour before the party began so she could set the stage for tonight. The library was cavernous and dark by default which made it perfect for a large group of people to gather together. At her request, the guests had taken seats in the floor in a large circular formation. Prunella had lit over a dozen pillar candles, and the warm glow mostly illuminated the guests' faces as they watched her explain her process and intentions for the evening as well as how they could help focus on making contact. As she held a plate of brain cupcakes aloft so that everyone could see the offering, her eyes fell on one guest in particular among the crowd. Muffy had all but frog-marched Brain into the library and made him sit beside her. Brain looked as if he would rather be anywhere else but here. Prunella blew out the incense. What else was new?

"Everyone, close your eyes and let us begin," she said serenely. "Spirits, we know you see us. Some of you may recognize our faces, recognize what is in our hearts and on our minds. Tonight, we ask that any spirit wishing to step forth please do so. Let us be aware of your presence. I offer myself to you as a conduit. You may speak through me."

A slight chilly disturbance moved through the air, eliciting soft, audible shivers from a couple of participants. Prunella silently blessed the air conditioning for kicking on at just the right time.

"I feel…heaviness in the air. It is very cold, closing in on me, bearing down on my shoulders and weighing me to this very spot. There _is_ a spirit among us…"

She could read the tension in the room. It was dead silent, and it was clear that the guests were hanging onto her words now.

"I can see…late summer. Birds, the air filled with their songs. I taste…tea…perhaps Darjeeling, and sweet strawberries. What a happy time…"

She paused for dramatic effect. She spoke again, lowering her voice to sound graver.

"But there is sadness… I hear it. Crying, the wailing of a heartbroken boy. Why is he upset, spirit? Who is he?"

Prunella inhaled deeply.

"Ah," she said softly. "The boy…the name…_Alan_."

"That's it!" said a voice.

Prunella opened her eyes to see Brain uncrossing his legs and standing.

"Brain, wait," she said calmly to him. "Please, stay."

"Don't you get it, Prunella?" he said, stepping around other guests to break out of the circle. "You're wasting your time. I will never play your game. Your incense still stinks, by the way."

He turned and was heading toward the library door.

"If you leave, you will never know what the spirit wants to tell you."

"Tell him to leave a message," he called over his shoulder.

"For the past two years, she has watched over you!"

He stopped in his tracks, his shoulders hunched slightly as if he were hit with a sudden pain.

_Got him._

Slowly, he turned to face her, his expression one of incredulous disbelief.

"_She_?" he uttered. "_How_?"

Prunella ignored the fact that he had not pieced it together yet. Really, he was supposed to be smarter than that. Instead he looked perplexed and frightened. This was going better than expected.

"The heirloom…the thing you have been wondering about for some time? It's okay…"

"What the…?"

"She knows your heart broke that day. She knows of your struggle, the tears you shed…"

"No," he said, backing as quickly as he could toward the door. "I— I don't know what's going on here, but I'm out!"

He turned and left, leaving Prunella with an immeasurable feeling of accomplishment.

* * *

Alan barely made it through the gate and onto the sidewalk before he collapsed against the wall barring the Crosswire estate from the outside world. He braced himself with one hand, his fingertips inching into the gaps between the bricks. He steadied himself, tugging at his necktie, which felt far too constricting now. He could not prevent the tightness from creeping into his chest. Tonight was supposed to have been fun, and he had not even made it twenty minutes.

After what seemed like an age, the tie loosened. He tried to remember his breathing exercises. How many breaths? How many seconds? How many repetitions? It was hard to remember since he was also in the middle of processing this new information, everything that had just transpired in the library. His mind raced, and he fell back on his old standard.

"Nine hundred and ninety-seven," he uttered to himself. "Nine hundred and ninety-one…"

What was that? What had just happened?

"Nine hundred and eighty-three…"

Had Prunella implied what he thought she had?

"Nine hundred seventy-seven…"

_You're filling in the gaps, believing what you want to believe._

"Nine hundred seventy-one…"

_I don't want to believe _anything_. Why would I when mediums aren't real? Now, if you'll excuse me…_

"Nine hundred and sixty-seven…"

_Okay. Okay, but that _was_ oddly specific. And how did she know? _

"Nine hundred and…"

Asinine as it sounded, there was just no way Prunella could have known all of that.

_No one knew about us._

Well, one did. Just one, and according to her, everyone else—how had she put it—thought he was a robot. So, unless…

_No. She didn't. She wouldn't. Would she?_

"Possibly?"

It was barely more than a whisper, as if saying it any louder might actually make it so. It had never made sense to Alan that Muffy would actually want him around, and now he thought he understood why. What if this had not been about helping him at all? What if Muffy had just been playing some kind of long con, in cahoots with Prunella?

_It is a logical explanation…_

Even if it hurt to think about it.

"Nine hundred and fifty—"

He jumped when a breathless voice interrupted him.

"What are you doing?"

Alan turned. Muffy clung to one of the gate's wrought iron slats as if perhaps she had grabbed it to slow herself down. Apparently, she had decided to give chase. Why? To rub it in?

"Are you okay?" she said timidly when he had not answered.

"Tell me this wasn't you."

It was not a demand. He was pleading with her. If it was her, he needed her to confess now.

But Muffy did not look guilty; she looked somewhat confused. Mostly, it was her brow, creased with concern that stood out to him, even though he was on the verge of shaking from the notion that she might have been in on this. He needed the situation to make sense, even if it meant exposing her cruelty.

"What are you talking about? That stuff Prunella said?"

"It would certainly make sense as to why you went out of your way to make sure I would be here tonight. You were insistent that night at the Sugar Bowl. And you met up with her on your way to the haunt. This took planning."

"Wait—you think that I had something to do with…whatever _that_ was?"

She looked like she was thinking it over.

"Lydia? You think she was talking about Lydia?"

"Who else could it have been?"

"And you—what—think that I gossiped about you, after everything you said to me?"

"What else did you say about me?"

"Alan, I can't believe you're even suggesting—"

"You let her organize this, did you not?"

"Yeah, but that's _all_ I did. She asked me if she could hold a séance, and I—I thought it could be different. Fun."

"Fun? For whom?"

"This wasn't me!"

"Then how did she know, Muffy?"

"I don't know! Okay? I have no idea where she heard it, but it wasn't from me. I swore to you that nothing left the cabin, and I meant it. I haven't told anyone, and I never will. You have to believe me…"

Muffy was on the verge of tears. Alan searched her features, hoping they would betray something other than the hurt and worry that were currently on display.

Why would she lie? If she were in on the prank, then why would she continue the con now that he had fled the mansion? He was not sure that she would.

And was this a prank at all?

Something bothered him greatly. Regardless of Prunella's source, there were small details in the so-called spirit's message about which he was sure no one knew except for two people, and one of them was no more. Muffy did not know about those details, and therefore, she could not have divulged those details.

Something else occurred to him. What was that about an heirloom?

_It's okay…it's okay…it's…_

"_Okay_…?" he whispered to himself.

"Alan?" Muffy said more urgently.

He snapped back to her.

"You believe me, don't you?"

"I, um… I believe you. I have to go."

He left her at the gate, fleeing on foot as quickly as he had before.

"Wait!" was her panicked cry. "Where are you going?"

"Home! There's something I need to check!"

And with that, Alan began sprinting.

_To be continued…_


	9. Summer and the Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Discussion of death and grief ahead. Reader discretion is advised.

_2007_

"Are you having a good time?" said Alan to Lydia.

It was late summer, and the first week of the new school year had come to a close. Alan walked alongside Lydia on World's End Park's newest addition, a nature path, fully wheelchair-accessible, that wound between Bear Lake and Moose Mountain. It had been his idea, suggesting the two step into his world for a day, since he had been accommodating enough to follow her around Fundi-Con before his family vacation. That was the pretense, anyway. Today was his moment of truth, the day he finally told Lydia how he felt. Come what may, there was no backing out.

The last time Alan had spent a decent amount of time with her had been a few weeks ago, when he had followed her around the local sci-fi convention. Despite his unfamiliarity with this type of event, Fundi-Con had been Lydia's Mecca, and Alan received second-hand enjoyment from watching her geek out over the experience. He nearly told her the truth that afternoon as they took a break in the concessions area. Alan sipped frozen lemonade while Lydia fawned over the Zoe Washburne Platinum Toys figure she had just purchased with her savings. She looked so pretty when she smiled like that.

He did not know how to begin. What was the appropriate way to confess to his friend that he had been in love with her since he was ten? He was staring at her, trying to choose his words carefully while simultaneously trying to fight back the fear rising inside him over the possible ramifications of such a confession, when she looked up at him, her happy expression fading to one of concern.

"Alan? You okay? You look nauseated."

Mission aborted, Alan swallowed hard as he nodded.

"It's rather stuffy over here," he said thickly, "but I'm fine."

He lifted his cup to his lips to avoid explaining further, while Lydia made a soft noise of agreement.

"It _is_ stuffy over here."

Apparently satisfied with his explanation, she had begun the act of putting her figure away, meticulously rewrapping it in its protective packaging and sliding it into her backpack, wedging it between a rolled-up event tee and a swag bag to cushion it further. She treated all her collectibles in this manner, as if they were precious artifacts that might crumble if not shown the utmost care.

"Well, the A/C will be better once we get away from all these food prep machines and hotboxes. Feel up to hitting some more booths with me?" she said sweetly as she handed the backpack to him.

"Sure," he said.

He rose from his seat and attached the pack to the back of her wheelchair, preparing to follow her around for another couple of hours.

Simply put, he had blown his chance.

The day after the con, Alan and his parents had made their annual trip to Texas, putting it off by two weeks so that his grandmother could rest post heart surgery. The visit had been good, but Alan had felt frustrated the entire time. He had longed for Lydia's company, a physical ache that seemed to settle in the core of his being. While not exactly a new feeling, it was the most intense he had ever felt, and it had a lingering presence for the duration of his stay. He had begun to suspect the feeling might never go away, not unless he did something about it.

On the first day of school, Alan had caught up with his friends at lunch. He sat among them, half listening as Buster recounted his birthday travels with his dad, as Francine had ribbed Muffy for making the poor decision to go blonde over the holiday. He was preoccupied with thoughts of _his_ summer and how he was tired of blowing his chances. Alan had decided that it was time to tell Lydia, and he knew how he was going to do it.

"Um, it's all right…" Lydia said as she wheeled herself along the path.

Alan grew nervous.

_But?_

Disappointing her had been the last thing he wanted to do today.

"But I've yet to see any birds that I don't see in my backyard every day."

Alan was preparing to jump to his defense when she continued.

"This trail sure is nice, though," she continued happily. "Really impressive. I don't know why it's taken me so long to get out here."

Alan handed Lydia his binoculars, and she stopped to string them around her neck.

"I'll keep a lookout for us," he said, hitching up his backpack "I saw Baltimore Orioles and orange-crowned warblers in this area over the summer. We just have to be vigilant. I also saw a hawk's nest."

"Oooh, a hawk? Really? Where?"

"Right here, actually. I—"

Alan felt instant embarrassment for mentioning it.

"Well… It's in the valley, not visible unless from a higher vantage point. Sorry. I shouldn't have brought it up."

"A higher vantage point? You mean like _that_ higher vantage point over there?"

Lydia pointed ahead to a ridge that was about twenty feet off the path, skirting the valley. She then looked back at him with a devious smirk.

"That's the one…but I get a weird feeling you're implying something. Why do I get that feeling?"

"Carry me?"

"Oh, no. Absolutely not, Lydia."

"Why not?"

"How about because it's dangerous?"

"Exciting. I think that's what you mean. The first cool bird on this path, and you're going to deny me the privilege of seeing it? You're a terrible friend," she said in mock disgust.

"I just don't think it's advisable. I have no idea whether I can carry you that far. What if we fall? Worse, what if I fall _on_ you and crush you? That incline is pretty steep. We're looking at thirty-five degrees."

"No, it's definitely thirty-two degrees, which should be a piece of cake for you. You're a strapping young lad…objectively speaking. Come on, Alan. Nothing bad is going to happen, and even if it does, so what? I get knocked over on the basketball court all the time. I'm not afraid of a little tumble."

His grand plan had been to make his confession at the bench by the loop, the shimmering lake on one side of them, the majestic mountain on the other. Seeing her smile up at him changed those plans. Once he took her to the top, once she gazed upon the nest, once he made her happy, he would tell her.

They had gotten as close to the base of the hill as possible before Lydia engaged her wheelchair's locks. Alan looked down at her, feeling lost.

"What?"

"I don't know how to do this," he said sheepishly.

"We'll figure it out."

Lydia thought for a moment.

"Got it. Lean forward. I'll grab onto you and rise with you as you straighten. Then just cradle me under my knees and hoist me up."

Alan bent forward. Lydia wrapped her arms around his shoulders, and it briefly dawned on him that they had never hugged before. She was not exactly hugging him, however; she had tensed her muscles so that her upper body would not be dead weight.

"You can stand up now," she said after a moment.

Apparently, he had been lost in thought.

"Right, right," he said quickly. "I was just about to. Here we go…"

Alan inhaled deeply, preparing for it as if he were about to perform a deadlift. Mind ready, his own muscles tense, he went for it. As swiftly as he could, he raised up, stopping at the halfway point to snake an arm underneath her knees, then lifted her, holding her close to his chest, like a groom crossing a threshold with his bride in his arms. Either he was stronger than he realized, or Lydia was lighter than she looked. It was little more trouble than lifting a small child, he thought, but even a small child could get heavy after a while, and so he took his first tentative steps up the incline.

He took his eyes off the path he was traversing for a split second. She tilted her head to look up at him with a satisfied smile. His eyeline squared perfectly with hers.

"Didn't I tell you? You've got this."

It was then that he felt her breath on his face, and he suddenly became all too aware of just how high his hand was on the back of her thigh, touching her skin. One of her hands cradled the nape of his neck. He flushed warm and made a pretense of shifting her weight so he could slide his hand closer to the crook of her knees.

He stole another glance at her, and that is when it happened. Alan unseeingly stepped on a stone protruding from the earth just enough to loosen when he placed his weight on it. The rock gave way, rolling out of its socket, causing Alan to stumble. He caught a look of surprise from Lydia as he at once let go of her and pitched forward. They both let out frightened yelps before hitting the ground hard with synchronized thumps. Lydia landed on her left side, while he hit the rocky ground with his right knee first, followed by the palms of his hands.

The smarting and stinging were instantaneous. Without looking, he knew there was broken skin, no doubt about it. Alan rolled to his side, then onto his back, where he clutched his knee to his chest as he hissed and groaned through the pain momentarily before a wave of fear hit him.

"Lydia? Lydia!"

He turned his head where he lay to see her pushing herself up to a sitting position, frowning down at her left elbow as she massaged it.

"Are you all right?"

"Yeah, fine. This is going to be a bruise, though… Oh my gosh, Alan, are _you_ all right? You're bleeding! Oh, no, I can't help but feel partially responsible."

"_Partially_?" he grunted as he sat up.

"Sorry, sorry. I'm sorry. Seriously, are you all right?"

Alan assessed the damage. Through the oozing blood, he could see a deep scrape just under his knee, his skin stretched tautly over a protruding lump the shape of a small egg. He could wiggle his toes, which was encouraging.

"I think I'm okay."

"So, I guess going to the top is out of the question?"

Alan shot her a look.

"Yeah. Thought so…"

It had taken some time to get Lydia back into her chair. Once there, he remained kneeling beside her on his left knee, sparing his right. He took a moment to appraise her as he caught his breath. She looked glum over the whole ordeal. Today had been a disaster. They were both hurt and exhausted, and his plan to tell her everything had been ruined. Who knew when he would be able to pluck up the courage again? When would he be able to set the scene just right?

_Just tell her_, said a voice inside him, and he ignored it.

"Are you sure you're all right?"

Lydia looked at her elbow again.

"Trust me, this is no biggie. You're the one who's cracked and bleeding. That looks painful."

A small stream of blood had trickled down the length of Alan's shin, soaking into his sock. It had ceased swelling, and Alan figured he would be in the clear as long as he cleaned it up soon.

"I have a first-aid bag in my backpack. I'll take care of it in a sec."

"I'm sorry I made you carry me."

"I didn't mind…"

It had been nice while it lasted, the closeness, the feel of her next to him.

"For what it's worth, you were right, one hundred percent, about everything today. That hill was a bad idea and, on closer inspection, it _was_ a thirty-five-degree incline. I hope you're satis—_mmmph_?"

His lips were on hers.

It could not have lasted longer than a second, but for Alan, it was as if time had stood still, and he was no longer made of flesh and bone, but of pure electricity. His eyes were closed, and all he could see were blue-white starbursts, like miniature lightning bolts dancing across a dark sky. The pit of longing stirred in his chest. Set free, it radiated outward, a rippling shockwave traveling along his extremities. The stinging in his knee was nothing in comparison. Yes, he was sure it had only lasted a second. He had already pulled away from her, and he was still feeling the aftereffects.

There was silence between them. Dare he open his eyes? Why was Lydia being so quiet?

It occurred to Alan that what he had done might not have been wholly appropriate, and a different fear took hold of him. This was all at once the bravest and stupidest thing he had ever done. Who was okay with someone kissing them without warning? What if he had angered her? What if she never wanted to talk to him again?

When he mustered up the courage to open his eyes, Lydia sat in stunned silence, staring ahead. It was as if she were looking straight through him, blinking over and over again, as if she were still trying to fully grasp the weight of the moment. He was on the verge of apologizing profusely to her when she spoke quietly, slowly.

"S-So… It's like _that_, is it?"

Come what may, there was no way to back out of this one.

"Something like that, yeah," he said nervously.

Three years of pent-up feelings and a planned, heart-felt confession of love, boiled down to four simple words. Though far from eloquent, those four words seemed to suit Lydia. Her dazed expression melted into the prettiest smile he had ever seen her wear, complimented by the flush of pink in her cheeks, and she was now seeing him properly for the first time since the kiss.

"Well, then… Okay," she said.

Alan's heart leapt, and he easily could have cried. From relief? From joy? He neither knew nor cared.

"_Okay_?" he said.

"Yeah. Okay."

"Well, then…okay!"

They laughed. Alan was unsure of what he should do or say next when Lydia ended the internal debate for him. In an eager and dreamy whisper, she told him, "Do it again."

And he did. He closed his eyes and leaned in slowly—anything to make the moment last as long as possible—until he found her again. That same electric feeling engulfed his body, and he was aware of nothing else except her hand on his cheek and the absolute certainty that, right now, he could die happy.

They found a bench along the path where Alan could take respite and clean and bandage his wound. Lydia offered to share the snack she had brought along, fresh strawberries and tea from a Thermos.

"This is Darjeeling, A-K-A, 'the Champagne of teas'. It also happens to be first flush, so, you know… I like to add a little orange blossom honey to it. I didn't bring another cup, but you're welcome to have some as long as you don't mind sharing my germs."

She held the cap cup out to him. He took it, his fingers brushing hers, and smiled.

"After today, I think we're incontrovertibly past the point of no return as far as _that's_ concerned."

He took a long, slow sip, savoring the purity and sweetness. Lydia stared at him as he did so, shaking her head.

"I can't believe you waited so long to tell me" she said. "Wait. On second thought, I guess I can."

"I didn't know what to say to you. In addition, I was petrified by the thought of my feelings going unrequited. I kept putting it off, hoping you'd pick up my signals. I thought that would be enough if I just exercised a little—a lot of—patience."

"You are so stubborn, Alan Powers, and one day it'll be to your detriment… You really tried sending me _signals_? Either I'm obtuse, or you can't mack worth a darn. You shouldn't have worried. Your feelings are requited. _Quite_ requited."

"What a relief," he chuckled before popping a strawberry into his mouth.

"So, what's next? I've never had a boyfriend before. Where do we go from here?"

Alan gave a small shrug as he downed his food. That was one question to which he was sure he did not have the answer. This point had seemed so monumental and unattainable that he had not even considered how to proceed once he—now _they_—surpassed it.

"I'm in the same situation as you are, I'm afraid."

"Never had a boyfriend, either?" she teased.

He laughed. "I mean, if you want to get technical."

"Well, then," she said, reaching for his hand, "it looks like we'll just have to figure it out. Together. How's your knee?"

"What knee?" he said with a dreamy grin.

Alan looked down. The bleeding lump had already saturated the Band-Aid, but the pain he had felt was a distant memory. The only thing he could feel was shivers.

* * *

After dropping Lydia off, Alan had so much unspent energy he hardly knew what to do with himself, and so he went for a walk, replaying the single bravest act he had ever executed over and over in his mind. Somewhere along the way, overcome with joy, he broke into a spontaneous end zone dance when he thought he was alone.

Why had he waited so long? It seemed so silly that he had. He decided that was the last thought he would waste on the subject, for what had happened years before, the procrastinating, the inhibitions, did not matter anymore. They had time ahead of them, time to progress, time to figure things out.

Alan stopped dancing instantly upon catching someone out of the corner of his eye, watching him. He froze when he looked to see a perplexed Francine, walking her bike down the sidewalk.

"Um, hi, Francine."

"Hey, Brain… You're not happy, are you?" she said jokingly.

Alan was, in fact, the happiest he had ever felt.

"You know, just excited for the new school year."

"Oh, yeah?" she said, as she continued on the path to wherever she was going. "In other shocking news, Buster is hungry…"

* * *

As the weeks passed, as Alan and Lydia spent more time together, sneaking kisses whenever possible, the world looked different to Alan. He was now free to express his feelings, and everything was so much more beautiful when one was free. Every love song seemed to make sense now—sincere songs, silly songs, and songs that were somewhere in between. He played "Something's Got a Hold on Me" over and over again through his earphones, blasting it at an unsafe volume. Previously, it had been a song he enjoyed for its upbeat sound and because Etta James was one of his favorites, but now he related to the lyrics on a personal level, feeling as if Etta had somehow seen into his soul—not that he believed in such things—and recorded a song that was specifically about everything he was experiencing.

Things were good, life was good, and summer had turned into fall. Alan and Lydia had even survived their first fight at the fall carnival, making up with funnel cakes and a quick kiss behind the candied apple booth. The weekend after, Lydia had accompanied him to the marsh, where she had asked him to go trick-or-treating with her, insisting that, at thirteen and fourteen respectively, neither he nor she was too old for it. They had politely debated the issue for almost half an hour before Alan conceded and agreed to go, not even sparing a thought for the warning given to him by Prunella before he had left the Tent of Portent.

* * *

There was a knock at Alan's bedroom door.

"Alan?" came his mother's concerned, buffered voice from the other side.

Alan sat in bed, where he had spent the majority of the past two days. It was the first of November, a gray and drizzly day that, Alan could see through his window, was quickly turning to dusk.

"It's open," he said dully as he switched on his lamp and looked back to his laptop screen.

Alan had been staring at it for the better part of an hour, his focus waxing and waning, trading off with the thoughts he was desperately trying to ignore. His mother had been quick to contact the school and explain everything, and she had managed to procure his assignments for the rest of the week. He had thought that trying to stay caught up with them would be enough to occupy his mind, but not thinking about Lydia had proved to be a difficult task.

His mother placed his dinner on the folding tray next to his computer desk, crossed the room and sat down on the bed beside him. She placed a hand on his cheek, stroking it with her thumb. It took all his strength not to recoil.

"Do you need to talk?" she said in a soft, sympathetic whisper.

Alan shook his head, the "no" he uttered barely audible.

Yesterday, the morning of Halloween, his mother had stopped him at the breakfast table, her eyes brimming with tears, insisting he have a seat. Alan did not like it when bad news was sprung on him. His pulse quickened, giving him a head rush, and an icy pit of dread formed in his stomach. He had refused to sit down. When she broke the news to him, Alan cried so hard that he hyperventilated, and it had taken hours for him to calm down. Once his mother had managed to soothe him, Alan requested to go back to his room, and there he had stayed. He had allowed his father to hug him upon returning home, but he refused to let either of his parents broach the subject about it for fear of breaking down again.

His mother moved her hand to his shoulder.

"Honey, the funeral is tomorrow morning. We _need_ to talk."

"What is there to talk about? I'm not going. I haven't changed my mind since yesterday morning, and I'm not going to change it."

"I can see how you might feel that way now, but I really think this is important for you."

"Why?"

His voice continued to rise, wavering as it did so.

"Flowers and music and Sunday clothes? For _what_? A waste of time and effort. She can't see it. And if you think she's looking down on us from Heaven or whichever platitudes the minister is going to mindlessly spew from behind the pulpit, then you really are full of—"

He stopped as his mother's mouth dropped open, obviously affronted by her son's outburst. Alan immediately regretted his harshness, and it was enough to quell his rant.

"Mom, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to insult you. It's just that I can't bring myself to go, especially when I know it won't help."

"Don't you think you could—"

"Just _try_ it? Sit in a pew, not hearing the service because all I will think about is how Lydia's lifeless corpse is lying in a box mere feet from me, to be buried under ground, where it will degrade into a pile of…moldering bones…"

He choked on a sob, and buried his face in his hands.

"Please, Mom," he said, voice muffled, "if you love me, don't make me do it."

His mother's voice was tearful.

"I'm not going to make you do anything, baby," she said, pulling him into her arms. "_I'll_ go. You can stay home tomorrow with your dad."

She rocked with him.

"It's going to be okay, baby. I swear it will be."

_Okay?_

When? How? How could anything be okay?

Never again would Lydia smile, never kiss him, never touch his face. They would never figure things out. Alan could not envision a point in time, near future or far, during which the knowledge of these things would not haunt him. Right now, he felt as if he could die, full stop.

_To be continued…_


	10. Jumping Jacks Man

Alan had not been far into his sprint home from Muffy's party when he began to tire out. He slowed his pace to a walk, hoping to pick it up again once he regained his breath and energy. The dress shoes he wore pinched his toes, and they would likely need a buff and polish after the abuse they received tonight. It was this recurring, annoying pain that spurred the brief moment of clarity that followed, a reminder of what happened to his hand not long ago.

He was already regretting his decision to make the run for home, just as he regretted most of the decisions he made when caught up in the frenzy of his emotions. His father had dropped him off tonight and would be home, waiting for the call to pick him up. Should he do that now, just call and wait for his father to drive him back? Running to his house in a panic would not score him any sanity points with his parents, Alan was sure. As much as he needed to get to his room, there was no way his bursting through the front door, sweaty and breathless would not raise an eyebrow.

_Think, Alan. Calling is the appropriate thing to do. If you do anything to frighten them, what's left of your freedom is gone._

His tutoring job with Muffy would be over, and she needed him. And she was the only friend with whom he could converse freely.

_But is she? Is Muffy _really_ your friend?_

His vicious inner monologue was back, the voice in the back of his mind that would occasionally rise up and make him feel inadequate, disgusting.

_How could you still trust someone who would lure you here and make a mockery of your suffering? _

"I— I don't think she did that," Alan mumbled aloud to the dim and empty sidewalk.

He was still on Nouveau Lane, the immense and opulent houses of which stood mostly quiet. Occasionally, he passed one that was hosting a party, judging from the number of cars parked in the driveways and the muffled noises that wafted onto the street.

_You don't sound confident. Remember what happened the last time you thought you were free to express yourself? That never works in your favor. And now you've put your faith in a liar, a gossip, a cheater. The question isn't _if_ you're stupid; it's to what degree._

"There's no evidence to support that claim. Muffy knew nothing of the things Prunella said. I never talked to her about Lydia, especially not about the day at World's End."

_No matter. You're still really messed up. You're actually on your way home with hopes of confirming your crackpot theory._

"No— Not _confirming_ anything," Alan said a bit more loudly this time. "However, in light of what happened tonight and the more intriguing aspects of Prunella's…_message_, perhaps it would be prudent to at least look into it…"

_But what then? Are you prepared to admit that Prunella was right all along and _you've_ been the fool? "Beware Halloween." Does that ring any bells?_

Before Alan could tell himself to shut up, headlights illuminated the street, and he heard a car approaching from behind. He stopped and turned to see a familiar limousine slowing down, crossing to the opposite lane to pull up next to where he stood. The driver's side window rolled down to reveal Bailey, still in his classic vampire costume, sans fangs.

"May I be of assistance, Master Powers?" he said upon removing something from one of his ears.

Alan's answer was instinctive, reflexive.

"No, thank you, Bailey. I'll be fine on my own."

"I rather think this would be a quicker way home, not to mention safer," he persisted politely, pausing momentarily before adding. "Miss Muffy was quite concerned about that."

Ignoring the tug he felt in his chest over the last part of Bailey's statement, Alan thought that, through his aloof expression, the butler himself might be working to hide a bit of concern. Bailey had obviously hurried to catch up with him.

Alan quickly weighed his options. This could be exactly what he needed.

"You're right," Alan admitted, and he was sure he had assessed Bailey correctly when he saw the slightest sign of relaxation in the man's expression. "Thank you."

Bailey issued a, "Not at all, Master Powers," as Alan opened the door and got in.

The cabin was quiet and empty, save for a couple of magazines stacked on the far end of the bench seat. Alan settled into the spot that was typically taken by Muffy, feeling the permanent depression she had forged as he buckled his seatbelt. There was a faint humming he had never noticed before, which he supposed must be coming from the mini fridge.

"_Sparkling or still? You need to stay hydrated…"_

The accent lighting, which was usually warm, inviting, cast a glow that made the cabin feel unsettling. He could read the title of the mag beside him. It was another issue of _Cosmo_, featuring an actress on the cover he did not know. A familiar fragrance hung in the air. Whether it was Muffy's perfume or hair product, he could not tell. He only knew that he distinctly associated it with her.

"_I'm so sorry you're going through this…"_

It felt odd to be alone in here with Muffy's remnants, as if he were riding with her ghost, but he supposed it was a bit much to expect her to leave her party just to accompany him.

Alan shook his head. There was no time to think about the cabin or the secrets shared within. He would be home soon, and he needed to focus. He leaned forward, elbows to knees, steepling his fingers as he thought about how to act once he got there, while thoughts of the cabin, the séance, and the Tent of Portent all fought to break his concentration.

* * *

_2007_

Alan sat at his desk Sunday afternoon, working on his school assignments, when he heard his mother's voice traveling up the stairwell.

"Alan, honey, can you come down for a minute?"

Her voice sounded urgent, and he figured she must need his help. Perhaps his father was out and the kitchen faucet was dripping again. He had not been particularly thrilled to be interrupted, but when he made it downstairs only to come face to face with Mr. and Mrs. Fox, Lydia's parents, he felt angry and utterly betrayed by his mother. He looked at her. She was unable to hide her shame over tricking him. She had known that, had she come up to get him, told him that Lydia's parents were calling, he would have refused to come down. He was not ready for something like this, and he did not know if he ever would be. To top it off, he was still in yesterday's track pants and sweatshirt.

Alan thought he would have to force himself not to be angry for the duration of their visit, but as he took them in, Mr. Fox holding one-year-old Brandon on one hip, Mrs. Fox clutching a wide but thin wooden box, a different feeling swept over him. They both wore pleasant expressions, but he could see the exhaustion and sadness in their eyes. What had they been through these past few days? Alan thought he knew, but how could he, really? Was his pain and their pain comparable? Was it worse? If it was worse, how in the world were they able to force themselves to be here? How could they smile at him, or anything, for that matter? They must be screaming on the inside. Suddenly, eye contact became impossible. If he looked at them directly, he would crack, and he could not let that happen. He needed to exercise some control over himself, so he spoke first.

"Hello, Mrs. Fox, Mr. Fox."

His voice was scratchy, unrecognizable.

"Good afternoon, Alan," Mrs. Fox said tenderly, almost motherly. "How are you?"

The room seemed to sway in his periphery, and he wanted to be anywhere right now instead of here, trying to answer that question. Alan swallowed, and it felt as if something switched off inside him, as if he knew he could not handle the situation and slipped into some sort of survival mode.

"Um, I'm fine," he lied in a flat voice.

There was a pregnant pause, during which Alan ignored the tension in the room, mostly radiating from his mother. He was supposed to say something to them, but he did not know what.

"Well, I'm sure you're busy," Mrs. Fox said after a moment, "so we won't keep you. We just stopped by to bring you a little something, a token to remember Lydia by…"

She handed the box out to Alan, and he hesitated before taking it. Thankful for something else to look at, Alan took in the intricate carvings around the edges of the box top, the checkered pattern, the shine of the varnish. Any day preceding Halloween of 2007, he would have been able to appreciate its beauty, perhaps even inquired about its creation. Today, however, it was just some box.

"Mrs. Fox and I were talking yesterday about how the two of you used to play chess for hours on end," said Mr. Fox with a small smile, hitching Brandon a little higher on his hip. "Out of the blue, we both said you should have it. Right at the same time. We couldn't think of anyone who deserves it more."

"She would be thrilled for you to have it," Mrs. Fox added. "She never played with it because she was afraid of damaging it. It's her favorite chess set, you see. That's what's inside the box. A true family heirloom, carved by her grandfather…"

Alan did not hear the rest of what they had to say. He simply tuned them out and waited for them to stop talking. It was only when he looked up to see them staring back at him expectantly that he realized they had. By that time, he had forced himself to go completely numb.

"This… This certainly is some impressive craftsmanship," was all he managed.

There was a long silence.

"Um, yes, well…" said Mrs. Fox, her voice wavering, almost tearful. "we won't keep you any longer. Take care of yourself, Alan."

Alan stood, holding the chess set as his mother walked Lydia's parents out to their car. Both she and Mr. Fox had placed comforting hands on each of Mrs. Fox's shoulders. Moments later, when she returned, his mother's disappointment was apparent on her face.

"Alan—" she began, but he cut her off.

"I don't want to hear it," he said coldly. "That was treacherous."

His breath hitched, and he could feel anger begin to surface again. He turned on his heel and stomped up the stairs with the chess set before he could lash out at her with any of his other angry thoughts. As he ascended, his anger shifted, from his mother to Lydia's parents. How dare they? How dare they invade his home and shove this in his face? He did not want some damned trinket. He wanted _her_. Was Lydia's chess set actually supposed to make him feel better? Was he supposed to take this out from time to time, play with it and be reminded of what he could no longer have? He could not think of anything crueler. And they had given it to him with a smile.

Alan flung open his bedroom door and gave the box a fling as well. His intention had been to toss the set onto his bed, get back to his homework, and deal with the horrible thing later. In reality, the chess set had not reached its destination. The box hit the edge of his mattress at a high speed, bounced off, and landed on the hardwood floor with a hard crash, cracking open and spilling its contents. Wooden chess pieces rolled everywhere.

Alan immediately regretted his actions when he saw the damage he had done. He approached the box to get a better look, then sank to his knees when the overwhelming sense of guilt hit him. He picked up the box lid, the chessboard. Once in perfect condition, a corner was now smashed in, its edge flattened. Lydia had loved this set, a true family heirloom. She had never played with it for fear of damaging it, and he had ruthlessly done so in a few short minutes. Her parents were not trying to be cruel when they had given it to him. They had not been obligated to give him anything of hers. It was not as if he were family. They had done it out of the kindness of their hearts. What would they say if they knew about this? What would Lydia say? He was sure he knew.

_You're terrible_, said a small voice in the back of his mind.

"I _am_ terrible," he said before breaking down in a fit of loud sobbing, not hearing the thundering footsteps rushing up the stairs.

"Oh, my goodness, Alan! What happened?" his mother said.

The next thing he knew, she was kneeling beside him.

"Are you all right?"

"No!" he cried. "I don't know what to do anymore! Please, help me!"

It took some time, but she had managed to get Alan to calm down. She walked him downstairs and made cocoa for him, holding his hand while he sat at the table and sipped it. She vowed that she would get in touch with Dr. Paula, someone he hoped never to see again but always feared he might. Still, he liked her and hoped she would have an opening because she was at least familiar with him. Oddly enough, the knowledge that something would be done made him feel just a bit better, gave him just a bit of hope.

His mother offered to help him clean up the mess in his room, but Alan figured it was only fair that he do it since it was his outburst that had caused it. One by one, he recovered the scattered pieces. The white queen was last. It had rolled all the way to his closet door where it had come to a stop. Something about the piece caught Alan's eye from across the room. Its bottom looked all scratched up. Thinking it was more damage he had caused, he crossed over to it in a hurry to get a look. He picked up the queen and examined the bottom. Indeed, it had been scratched, but this was nothing he could have done. It almost looked as if it had been vandalized with a sharp object. Furthermore, what had been scratched into it was inexplicable, bizarre. It looked like a stick figure that was midway through performing jumping jacks, only the head floated just above the body, as if it had been lopped off.

"What?" he said softly.

Maybe his head was still fuzzy from his crying jag, but this just did not make any sense. Why would Lydia do this to one of her prized possessions? Every collectible she had owned, from posters to figures to replicas, was kept in pristine shape. And yet she had crudely scratched a stick figure on the bottom of this? The uncharacteristic behavior sent a small shiver up his spine.

* * *

Bailey drove off in the limo as Alan approached the front door of his house, sliding the Windsor of his golden tie back into place. Not wanting to alarm his father with the change of plans, he had sent him a text explaining that Bailey had offered to drive any guests who wished to come home early, and he really wanted to finish up an essay that was due Monday.

"Hey, Dad!" Alan called as he closed the door.

His room called to him, but he needed to get through this next part as smoothly as possible.

"Hey, son," his father said. Emerging from the kitchen. "I'd ask if you're hungry, but I bet you ate at the party."

Alan sniffed.

"Did you make chili?"

His father nodded. "Don't get too excited, though. It's turkey."

Alan gave a small laugh as he followed his father back into the kitchen. "I'm sure it's fine… I could eat. I definitely need something to offset all the chocolate I had."

In fact, Alan had not eaten since lunch. Food was the last thing on his mind, but he figured he could force himself to eat once he made it to his room and settled the matter that awaited him in his closet. He grabbed a bowl from the cupboard and ladled a portion he thought would be manageable into it.

"Do you mind if I take this up with me? I'll wash up after."

His father looked at him with an approving smile.

"Hey, as long as you eat it, I don't care where it happens," he said happily.

"Great. Thanks."

Alan took a spoon from a drawer, stuck it into his bowl and placed a corn muffin on top. He went to the fridge and grabbed a soda, closing the door with his foot.

"If I don't see you later," he told his father, "have a good night," and left for his room.

Once in his room, Alan placed his bowl of chili on top of his desk. First things first. He peeled off his suit jacket and tossed it onto his computer chair, then headed to his closet. The door stood open, still propped by his soccer cleat. It had been that way since Monday night, which had saved him some trouble and anxiety, if only a little. He got on his knees at the closet's opening and, as quietly as he could, he began searching for Lydia's chess set. Not long after his meltdown two years ago, he had packed it away in his closet. It was hard to look at it, knowing what it represented, knowing what he had done to it. And the jumping jacks man confused him. If he was being honest, it inexplicably creeped him out as well. As long as the set had been in his possession, Alan thought about the stick figure from time to time, wondering about its origin and what it could mean.

_"The heirloom…the thing you have been wondering about for some time? It's okay…"_

Alan shook his head as he carefully pulled item after item from his closet, not wanting the commotion to get his father's attention. He was supposed to be doing schoolwork, after all.

"How crazy is this?" he said lowly to himself. "Prunella is a hack, and this is most definitely crazy…"

Alan stopped. He had finally unearthed it. The wooden box sat innocently near the bottom of his closet under a duffel, its sad, damaged corner pointing toward him accusingly. It was the moment of truth, time to put his crackpot theory to the test.

Alan moved to sit cross-legged on the floor and drew the chess set into his lap. He steeled himself as he pushed the lid open with his thumbs and set it aside. He picked up the white queen and looked at its base. The jumping jacks man looked back at him as he considered it.

_It's okay…it's okay…it's…_

"I don't believe it… It's not 'okay', it's literally O-K."

Alan turned the base counterclockwise, and the jumping jacks man was no longer a stick figure with a disembodied head but two distinct letters.

**O K**

_"Okay."_

_"_ _Okay_ _?"_

_"Yeah. Okay."_

_"Well, then…okay!"_

"Damn you, Prunella," Alan breathed, staring down at the queen. "_How?_"

_To be continued…_


	11. Angel, Devil, and a Mutual Acquaintance

It had been fourteen excruciatingly long days since Chip and Catherine had shared their unforgettable first date together in Erie. Little had Chip known that the next time he would see her again, she would be standing right here in his place of work, out of reach. Monday, after he had complained to his little sister about not getting to see her, after Muffy assured him that they were as good as engaged already, never mind the fact that Catherine would not even tell her parents about him, he had found himself missing her even more. He broke down and called her after Muffy had departed, trying his best not to sound desperate as he offered to take Saturday night off. What they did with their time together would be left up to Catherine. Whether she chose to go out or stay in, it did not matter to him, as long as he got to spend time with her and, hopefully, let off a little steam. Giving up one of his best tip nights seemed like a pittance in his moment of need.

"You get that dough," Catherine had said over the line, sounding apologetic. "I'm not free. This morning, Janice invited me to come along with her to some costume thing Saturday evening. I don't have all the deets yet—it was pretty short notice—but I doubt I'll make it back home early enough to—Ohmigod! I don't have a costume! Can I let you go? I need to call Tami and see if she can hook me up…"

It had looked as if he were doomed to remain blue a little while longer, and that did not strictly apply to his mood.

As he prepared to leave work Wednesday night, just as he was unpinning his silver nametag, Trevor, Chip's manager, had come around the employee lockers.

"Hey, just so you know, I've got you in the ballroom Saturday night for a party," Trevor said. "Open bar."

"Sweet," Chip said, opening his locker and trading his nametag for his coat. "Thanks for the solid."

Work was work, but open-bar parties always made him look forward to the gig. On average, people could be freer with their tipping, especially once they got nice and hammered. As a plus, once they got nice and hammered, the people watching typically got more interesting. But, when it came down to it, it all depended on the guests.

"Who's the party for?" he asked nonchalantly, reaching for his keys and security lanyard.

Trevor, who was a bear man in his late thirties, looked up briefly, obviously searching his memory.

"Uh, I'll have to get back to you on that one. I think it's some horse lovers' thing—you know, like, people who own them and not like in that play…"

Trevor must have assumed Chip took "horse lover" to mean something else when his eyes grew wide, when really, he had just realized where Catherine would be going with Janice on Saturday. Chip smiled and simply said, "It's cool. I gotcha, man," and waved goodnight to him, psyching himself up for the chilly walk to his car, followed by the lonely drive home.

"It's a costume party," Trevor added, calling after Chip. "You can dress up, too, if you want, so long as it's tasteful."

And now here she was, looking tempting, while he was stuck behind the bar. Tami had lent Catherine her slutty angel costume for the night, apparently.

_No, she's not slutty…_

Flirty, that was the more appropriate term. All white, of course, her costume was an off-the-shoulder number with a feathery skirt running mid-thigh over sheer white stockings. He had seen a multitude of more revealing Halloween costumes, but, truthfully, her wings and halo stuck out as the only wholesome things about it.

_Who am I kidding? At this point, she could be dressed like an Amish woman, and it would probably turn me on._

The irony was not lost on Chip that he had shown up to work dressed as the Devil. His costume was simple: a red tie to accent his black vest and trousers and two tiny red horns he had attached to his forehead with spirit gum. The horns itched a little, but he thought he could put up with it for the next few hours, provided he did not have an allergic reaction to them.

Surveying the ballroom, only half of the guests had actually shown up in costumes, with the others in dark semi-formal attire. Ages ranged from about twenty to eighty years old in both brackets, but it was easier to separate the fuddy-duddies from those who had a sense of fun. Champagne was flowing. Catering servers wove in and out of the crowd, expertly balancing trays filled with canapés or coupe glasses of bubbly. People mingled, chatting in groups or one-on-one at one of the tall stand-up cocktail tables, or they were tipsily cutting a rug on the dance floor while the live band played an instrumental version of "Ghostbusters". Someone had spent a lot of money tonight. It was all very reminiscent of some of his parents' soirées.

To take his mind off that idea, Chip stepped away from the ancient and hunched-over man in a three-piece suit and bowtie, to whom he had just served a gin and tonic, in hopes of catching Catherine's attention. She was facing him, but not looking his way, however. Aside from a quick glance in his direction shortly after entering the ballroom this evening, perhaps to confirm that it was he who would be working here tonight, she had not acknowledged his presence at all. Even Janice, who had shown up decked out in one of those powdered wig judge costumes, had waved at him once she had recognized him. Catherine was finishing up what appeared to be an endive cup while she talked with Janice and another lady he did not know. There was someone else. A young rabbit man, early thirties, handsome with sandy hair, wearing a resplendent matador costume. He tapped Catherine on the shoulder and whispered into her ear. She listened intently for a second, then burst into laughter, touching his shoulder. Even from a distance, Chip could see the twinkle in her eye. His stomach felt uneasy, and he suddenly wished he had not taken his attention off the bowtie man.

Before he could dwell on Catherine and the matador further, his view was obscured by a burly aardvark man with a graying mustache and beginner's beer belly, who sat down heavily on the barstool across from him. The man wore a black Stetson to match his black jeans as well as the black vest he wore over a powder blue shirt. This was not a costume, Chip was certain, but it was obvious the man could not be bothered to dress nicely for the occasion, either.

"Hell, _yeah_, that's you!" the man said in a booming baritone, jabbing a finger in Chip's direction before crossing his arms on the bar top. "Soon as Jan pointed you out to me, I knew it was you. I said to her, 'If that's not Ed Crosswire's boy, I'll sleep in the stables tonight!' I'll be a son of a gun if you don't look just like him."

Chip begged to differ on that, but he was too nervous to protest. The mustache man was pretty large, and, if he knew the big guy, Chip's father, well enough to loudly confront his son in a setting like this, Chip was not sure he liked where this was going. The big guy had likely pissed mustache man off, and now mustache man was going to chew him out for the crime of being a relative. Chip was prepared to sympathize with mustache man, tell him that he was on his side. If mustache man had a beef with the big guy, then mustache man should give him as much hell as he could.

"That man is a _saint_," he continued, rapping his knuckles sharply on the bar for emphasis.

"I— Uh, I beg your pardon, sir?"

"And if you're half the man he is, then it's damned good to meet you! Eh?"

The man had caught his inadvertent pun and pointed up to Chip's horns as he waggled his brow. He then offered a hand.

"Rudy Tarver," he said.

So, this was the infamous Rudy, Janice's husband, Catherine's other boss.

_Yeah, okay, he totally strikes me as a "Rudy"._

"Yes… Yes, hello, Rudy," he replied as he shook hands with him, still grappling with the man's praise of the big guy. "It's good to finally meet you. Catherine loves you guys. I'm—"

"Charlie. I can read your nametag. And you're _Cathy's_ friend? You're surrounded by good people, Charlie."

Rudy was only half right, even if Catherine was on the dancefloor, cavorting with the matador to the tune of "Somebody's Watching Me" while giggling uncontrollably.

"Yeah. Well, sir, can I make you a drink?"

Rudy let out a boisterous "HA!" and said, "_A_ drink, he says. I aim to get _loaded_! Get me a bourbon. Double. Neat. Nut'n fancy, but I want it to get the job done without tasting like Jan's hairspray."

Chip knew exactly what to do. He reached for a bottle of completely accessible Four Roses. He liked Rudy's style. Chip hardly drank these days, neither in frequency nor amount. Hangovers were harder to get through when there was always a workday ahead. When he chose to imbibe, however, whiskey was his go-to, and he had become a sort of connoisseur. Rudy was likely less choosey. His eyes had become a bit glassy since he had sat down. It would appear that Rudy was already a couple of Champagnes into his quest to get loaded. At least. Perhaps that explained his lack of curiosity as to why Ed Crosswire's son was working in a hotel. As he poured the drink, Rudy continued.

"When I tell you we owe everything to your dad, I mean it…but I'm sure you know all about that."

This left Chip in a sticky situation. On a good day, he did not wish to hear about his father. Right now? Over Rudy's shoulder, he could see that Catherine and the matador had left the dancefloor, and they were now chatting with another group of costumed people. This dude with the sandy hair had spent more time with his girlfriend than he had in two weeks, and the fact was steadily pissing him off. On the other hand, hearing someone sing the big guy's praises was so out of left field, a tiny part of him could not help but wonder… Either way, his hands were tied. He was at work and could not be rude to guests.

"Sorry, sir," Chip said as he handed Rudy the glass. "Until recently, I lived out of state. I'm afraid I'm out of the loop."

Rudy took a sip, smacking his lips a little as he savored the beverage.

"Well, I won't bore you with our sob story, but the bottom line was we wanted to expand the rescue back in oh-five but didn't have the funds. We didn't know it, but a mutual acquaintance approached your dad on our behalf and connected us. Next thing we knew, work crews were piling in, equipment and supplies were delivered daily. In a matter of weeks, we had a whole new setup, and the best part of it was the new stables…so beautiful and huge it made the old stables look like a hut. If you've visited Cathy, then you know the one."

Rudy was referring to the apartment above the stables, Catherine's new home. And the big guy had footed the bill. He wondered if Catherine knew that.

"Oh, really? I had no idea," was all Chip could say.

"Yep. And you know what? He got those stables built just in time because, a couple of days after the party he threw to celebrate the reopening, we took part in a massive rescue just outside of Cleveland. Should've seen those poor creatures. Some were beyond saving, but the ones we _were _able to take in—they got better, and they _thrived_. And it was all thanks to your dad. To this day, he's still one of our biggest donors. God, I love that man!"

Rudy shifted on his stool so he could reach for his wallet.

"It's been good talkin' to ya, Charlie," he slurred.

"You, too, sir. Enjoy your evening."

Rudy unfolded his wallet, took out a crisp fifty-dollar bill, and stuck it in the tip jar.

"You deserve this. You tell your old man I said he's gotta nice kid."

"I sure will," Chip said, though he would do no such thing.

Rudy got up and sauntered away, bourbon in hand, holding himself fairly well for someone who was half-lit. Having served him, Chip turned his attention back to the ballroom to find Catherine. The matador was no longer in sight, and Catherine was alone for the first time this evening. Perhaps she had felt his stare, for her gaze drifted in his direction. He needed to talk to her. He took advantage of the opportunity and motioned for her to join him, nodding ever so slightly. Catherine looked around before purposefully making her way over to him. Once there, she looked at him expectantly but said nothing.

"Hi," he said quietly if a bit forcefully.

"Hi," she said. "When I talked to you the other day, I had _no_ idea I'd end up here."

"Yeah, didn't think so. Can you sit for a sec? Order something complicated—I need to talk to you."

"Oh-kay," she said.

Catherine maneuvered herself onto the stool and sat as primly as her getup would allow.

"Would you believe this is the most _conservative_ costume Tami owns? Make me whatever you feel like, you're the expert."

Chip set to making her a Rob Roy, which was not complicated, but he could barely think of anything off the top of his head right now.

"First things first," he said in a low voice, "who's _that_ guy?"

He was referring to the matador, and it did not take long for Catherine to figure out what he had meant.

"You mean _Brett_? He's the boarding manager at Tarver."

"Oh. So you work together?"

"Not directly. I'm on the rescue side. Wait—" She paused as she put two and two together. "Oh my god, Chip. He's _gay_."

"Gay?"

He could not help but feel relieved.

"Yeah. His boyfriend couldn't come tonight, so I said I'd hang out with him. Don't let the costume fool you, he's pretty shy."

She stopped to give him a sympathetic look.

"But even if he were completely straight, it wouldn't make a difference. You don't need to feel threatened."  
"I…don't feel threatened, Cat. I finally got a chance to meet Rudy," he said, desperate to change the subject now.

He placed the cocktail in front of her.

"I noticed. He's a character, isn't he?"

"Yeah… Did you know the big guy basically rebuilt the rescue?"

"Um, yeah," she said after taking a sip. She gestured to the rest of the room behind her. "Everyone here knows that. He's kind of a hero among our community."

"I don't get it. Why the hell would he do that?"

She shook her head. "To be charitable? To be _nice_?"

"Bull. Charity work has always been Mom's thing, and even though she actually _wants_ to give back, a big part of her also knows it makes the family look good. She appreciates the optics. The big guy, on the other hand…he doesn't do anything without getting something out of it in return. So, what does he get?"

"Nothing, as far as I know."

"Rudy mentioned a mutual acquaintance. You wouldn't happen to know who it is?"

"I don't. My guess would be it's probably somebody rich, but rich people are a dime a dozen in the horse community. Oh—maybe it's Mrs. M. She's rich, and from what little scuttlebutt I hear, she's big into charity work. So…"

"What's Mrs. M's name?"

"I'm…not sure. I've only ever heard her referred to as 'Mrs. M'."

"What's she like? What do you know about her?"

"Not a lot, to be honest. I'm a grunt who mostly works the rescue side of things. She boards her horses and is so well off she employs staff to take care of them. She barely even comes around, and when she does, I mostly just catch a glimpse of her car as it drives by. Alfa Romeo convertible. Very sexy. She said 'hello' to me once and asked me if I enjoyed working at Tarver. She seemed pretty friendly. Not stuck up at all."

"Is she here tonight?"  
"Haven't seen her."

"What does she look like?"

"Uh, I don't know…late thirties, early forties? Blonde. Slim build. She has a hint of an accent. Apparently, her parents were Russian or something, but she's lived here most of her life."

"Is that all?"

"I think that's pretty good, coming from mostly hearsay."

She took another, deeper sip from her Rob Roy.

"This is really good, by the way. Hey, you know who might be able to tell you who the mutual acquaintance is?"

"Who?"

"Your father, if you ask him."

"_Pfft_… Not a chance, Cat. I don't want to know that badly. I really don't even care. I just think it's weird."

She shrugged.

"Whatever. Just saying… Is that all you wanted to talk about?"

"Not quite."

The bowtie man was still sitting on his stool, staring ahead, nursing his gin and tonic. Chip made a pretense of wiping down the bar as he got closer to Catherine and said just above a whisper, "I miss you. Why don't you come home with me?"

Catherine looked uncomfortable to be discussing this here and now.

"I can't. I came here with Janice. How would that look?"

Chip wanted to tell her that she was an adult, and if she wanted to leave a party with her boyfriend, it did not matter how it looked. He knew that was not her point, however. Still, he pressed.

"Then drive back to Belmont after you get home. I'll make you glad you did."

"Do you know how badly I want to?" she muttered as she fidgeted with the stem of her glass. "If tomorrow wasn't such an early day… I'll make it up to you, I swear."

_When?_

Before Chip could verbalize this question, Brett the matador was back on the scene, approaching the bar.

"Catherine, whatcha drinking?" he said, taking the last stool next to her. "Oh, wow, is that a Rob Roy? Those are amazing. Could I have one of those, please?"

Chip forced himself to forget his relationship woes for the time being. He smiled at Brett and said politely, "Absolutely."

* * *

As the night went on, Chip had begun to worry that the big guy might have been invited to this party. If he had, he had yet to show up. As the hours passed, it looked less and less likely that he would, which was excellent. He could not be rude to guests, but he did not know what he would do if he were forced to serve his father. Furthermore, he did not relish the idea of the impending Thanksgiving dinner at his family home, especially after his conversation with Rudy.

Before taking a bathroom break, Chip had snatched the fifty Rudy had given him from the tip jar, only to tuck it into the vest pocket of an unsuspecting server as he made his way back to his position at the bar, pausing briefly to swipe a canapé from his tray and tell him, "You're doing a great job, my man!" before stuffing the food into his mouth as he continued on.

The big guy had funded the upgrade at Tarver in 2005, the year after their showdown on the lawn of Omega Psi Phi. Chip wondered if Rudy would still consider his father a saint if he knew what he had done. Was he really supposed to believe his father gave out of the goodness of his heart to help "those poor creatures"? No, he was not buying it, especially when it had not bothered his father at all to leave his own son out in the cold. He doubted Rudy would have tipped so much had he not been Ed Crosswire's son. Well, if he could not have his father's money back then, he certainly did not want money on his father's behalf now. He would get along fine without it, as he had done for the past five years.

_To be continued…_


	12. Fallout

The sun shone brilliantly in the sky above them. That was not to say it was a cloudless sky. A fair few existed, mottled dark gray and white. Alan recognized these clouds as altocumulus right away. He knew they would not be a threat, however, for they were far off in the distance and moving away from him and his companion. No, it looked to be another perfect fall day in…wherever they were at the moment.

A voice echoed his thoughts.

"Mmm… It _is_ lovely today."

He looked down at Lydia, whom he was carrying. She smiled back at him, looking lovely herself in a long, floral patterned dress. Alan could have sworn Lydia had been travelling beside him on their journey, even if he had forgotten the destination. It seemed impossible that he had been carrying her the entire time. He was not even tired; she felt weightless. Yet here she was, arms wrapped around him, fingers laced at the back of his neck, her flowing dress draped over his arm. An endless sea of dying grass, grass Alan could tell had been a vibrant green before the seasons changed, lay ahead of them. As if independent from his brain and the rest of his body, his feet carried them forward, while Lydia prattled on about the weather.

"Especially when contrasted with yesterday's weather. I was afraid today would be more or less the same, and that would've been such a letdown. I mean, who wants to come out here in the pouring rain?"

"No one, I would surmise," said Alan, not knowing what to say.

Not wanting to look foolish, he fought to remember where "out here" could possibly be. He took in his surroundings—the chirruping birds, the outdoor location, the fact that he was carrying her—then it came to him, and he felt even more foolish for not thinking of it sooner. They must be at World's End for a do-over, only, where was the path? Had someone ripped it up? That must be why he had to carry her for so long.

"So, we're going to the top this time, right?" he said to her, a new determination sweeping over him.

Lydia's brow crinkled as she looked back at him in confusion.

"The top? You're talking about the ridge at World's End? Oh, Alan, I think you're misinterpreting things. Where we're going has no _top_, quite the opposite, in fact."

Lydia moved a hand to caress his cheek and, though he was sure it was there, Alan felt nothing.

"I…don't understand."

She regarded him with a pitying expression as she took her hand away and straightened the Windsor of his tie.

_Tie?_

It was a black tie, matching the suit he was wearing, a fact Alan was just beginning to realize. He could tell he was wearing dress shoes. They always pinched his toes. As quickly as it had come, the determination he had felt began to wane, giving way to unease.

"You're hardly one to talk, you know," she said, "about the weather today. You didn't want to come out here at all, rain or shine. Is this the thanks I get?"

"What is going on?"

"Stop. We're here."

Alan stopped walking.

"Wh— Where exactly is 'here'?"

Lydia nodded upward, suggesting that Alan have another look around. As he did, Alan momentarily wondered if this was what it was like to be on some sort of psychedelic trip, for the bright sun and open blue sky became blurry and pixelated before dissolving around them to reveal their intended destination. A weathered stone and wrought-iron fence surrounded them, and the land was dotted with ancient trees as well as headstones and monuments in varying sizes. He knew this place, hated it. They were standing in the middle of Elwood City Cemetery, and in front of Alan lay an open and freshly-dug grave.

He looked to her, unable to believe that someone who was supposed to love him could do something like this. Lydia bit her thumb, smiling ruefully, as if she had anticipated his reaction.

"You're mad," she said. "I can tell."

"Because you tricked me! First, you leave me alone, and now—"

"Hold up and chill out, Alan. I didn't trick—"

"You really want to have a debate right now?"

"How long have you known me? I'll debate you anytime, anywhere, even in a graveyard. Now, let's get something straight. I didn't leave you. You make it sound like it was my choice. Do you honestly think I could've said, 'yeah, don't think I'll be having a detached blood clot in my sleep tonight, thank you very much,' and just went on with my life? My dying wasn't a choice for me any more than it was a choice for you."

She seemed so casual about it. Alan, on the other hand, stammered.

"It's so unfair, though. You were young. You took anticoagulants…"

"And people wear seatbelts, but sometimes that just isn't enough. Sometimes bad things just…happen."

"And that's terrifying, knowing that bad things are inevitable."

"I know you struggle with that notion, but remember that life is what you make it. Sometimes it can be bad, but it's not _all_ bad… I'm sorry about your anxiety, but if you keep working against Dr. Paula, you'll never—"

"How do you know about all that?"

"_Pshhh_… This is your dream. I know everything you know. That's why we're here. I didn't trick you, not really. You know what you need to do. Now, let go of me."

Alan glanced down at the hole in the ground, so dark and deep he could not see the bottom.

"I can't just put you in there and leave you."

"Yet you didn't have a problem shoving my chess set, which you broke, by the way, down into your closet. Ironic…don'tcha think?"

"But…but I can't see the bottom. I don't know where it ends."

"I'm not afraid of a little tumble, Alan. Trust me, this is no biggie. You're the one who's cracked and bleeding."

Now that she mentioned it, there was a sharp pain in the knuckles of his left hand. Though Alan was still supporting Lydia, unable to look at his hand properly, he could feel the blood, warm and sticky between his fingers. Every knuckle felt as if it had been bashed raw.

"Why are you doing this to me?"

"You're doing it to yourself. Let go. It's okay. Do you hear me? It's O-K."

He shook his head.

"You can't carry me around forever."

"Oh, what do you know?" he said exasperatedly. "You're just a dream. There has to be another way. I'm working on finding it. I've been working on it all night, in fact, ever since I got home from Muffy's party."

"You are so stubborn, Alan Powers, and one day it'll be to your detriment."

Muffled chattering could be heard. A quick check of his surroundings confirmed they were alone in the cemetery, yet the voices remained. At once, the voices were all around them while sounding far off in the distance.

"What's that?" said Alan. "Who's talking?"

"Oh, so now you're changing the subject in the middle of trying to talk some sense into yourself? That's just great… Alan?" Lydia snapped her fingers in his face. "Hey, Alan! We need to focus on the matter at hand."

"I can't!" he said, looking to the sky above for the source of the noise. "I'm not kidding, I hear _voices_. You have to hear them, too, don't you—_Lydia_?"

When Alan looked back to her, Lydia had vanished. His arms were still outstretched as if to cradle her, but the girl was gone, leaving Alan in his black suit, the cavernous hole at his feet. He turned his hand over, the one he had slammed repeatedly into the clock radio not long ago, expecting to see the blood that had felt so real. His hand was clean, though the small scar from his injury was visible. The voices carried on as his vision became hazy, fading into darkness.

Alan's eyes fluttered open, and his bedroom came into view. How long had he been asleep? Not long, it seemed. Through his window, it appeared to still be midday. But, wait—why was he on his bed? Had he not drifted off while working at his desk? Puzzling still, were his clothes. He had somehow changed out of his track pants and academic team sweatshirt into jeans and his old forest green sweater, a sweater he thought he had outgrown in sixth grade. Inexplicably, it was no longer ill-fitting.

The only thing that was not a mystery, at least, not anymore, was the source of the muffled voices. They were coming from his closet.

The door was closed, which was another thing outside the norm. It had been open since Monday night and, even though Alan felt as if he were on the cusp of understanding and perhaps should not be afraid of the skeleton within, he still had not been able to help himself. Slowly, he got out of bed and crept toward the closet, straining his ears. As he got closer, he could tell that there were only two voices, and they both sounded feminine. With great care, he inched up next to the door and put his ear to it, trying to make out what they were saying.

"All I can say is that I did try warning Brain years ago…"

Prunella? Alan mouthed the name to himself.

"…but did he listen? Nooo. He knows _everything_."

"He doesn't, though, does he?" said the second voice. "He only secretly wishes he knew everything."

Alan instantly recognized the second voice as Lydia's. Wanting to see her again, he flung the door open before he even considered it might be the skeleton on the other side. The skeleton was nowhere to be seen, however. The scene that lay on the other side of the door was much, much more bizarre. It was as if someone had shrunk the interior of the Tent of Portent and stuck it inside Alan's closet. Everything was here—the white and purple candles, the gauzy swags, the fairy lights—just on a smaller, closet-sized scale. Alan thought he even caught a whiff of patchouli as several facts began to sink in. There was no table because there was no room for one, nor was there room for Lydia's wheelchair. The two girls sat cross-legged on the floor of the closet facing each other, Lydia's prized chess set between them. Atop the chessboard sat a teapot, ivory-white, adorned with a delicate violet pattern. It was an item Alan did not associate with the Tent of Portent, but for some reason it seemed familiar to him. Prunella wore the black fortuneteller garb she had worn last night at Muffy's party, while Lydia wore her bright orange jack-o'-lantern sweatshirt. It was the same outfit she had worn to the fall carnival two years ago, right down to her skull necklace, which flashed weakly every couple of seconds.

Both girls stopped talking and turned their heads to him in an unsettling, synchronized fashion. Prunella was the first to speak.

"What did I tell you, Lydia? I got him to play my game after all."

"What did I tell _you_, Prunie?" said Lydia, her eyes boring into Alan's. "He's _not_ fine with not knowing. That was a lie if I ever heard one."

"I hate to tell you I told you so, Brain, but…" Prunella held up the teapot, flicking her wrist as she gestured to it with her free hand. "…I _told_ you so. It's _okay_! Tea?"

"I… I don't know if I should," was Alan's hoarse reply.

Now there was distant music playing in his room.

"_Love comes out of nowhere, baby, just like a hurricane…"_

It was Buddy Guy singing, no mistake.

"Come on," Prunella coaxed, "you're not honestly going to turn down Darjeeling, are you?"

"It's the Champagne of teas, after all," said Lydia sagely.

Alan was too distracted to think as he watched Prunella perform a high pour into a Thermos cap cup. He was trying to figure out where the music was coming from. It sounded closer now.

"_And it feels like rain…"_

Prunella held the steaming cap cup up to him. Alan took a couple of timid steps forward and reached for it. He had not been expecting to take hold of it, but it felt solid and tangible in his hand, though not very warm. He quickly stepped back into place, not wishing to be too close to them.

"_And it feels like rain..."_

Alan looked down at the tea then back to Prunella.

"How did you know?"

"Sorry!" sang Prunella with a smile. "Come back when you have an open mind!"

The closet door snapped shut on Prunella and Lydia, causing Alan to jolt awake, for real this time. Indeed, he had fallen asleep at his desk in the middle of the day, and the reason the cap cup had felt so real was because he had managed to reach out and grab his pencil holder. The small cylinder was still grasped firmly in his hand. The source of Buddy Guy was apparent, too. His phone was ringing, right next to him, its screen illuminated:

**Incoming Call**

**Muffy**

**814-555-4673**

Alan let go of the pencil holder and hastily swiped to answer, hoping the call would not turn over to voice mail. He made it just in time. He picked up the phone and answered hoarsely.

"Hello?"

* * *

Sunday afternoon saw Muffy at Mill Creek Mall, wandering around Formosa, a popular chain retailer for beauty supplies, trying to comfort herself in the aftermath of last night's disastrous Halloween party. Perhaps "disastrous" was a harsh way to describe it. Everyone seemed to have a great time, aside from herself and Alan.

She had experienced conflicting feelings as she watched Alan retreat down the Nouveau Lane sidewalk last night. Part of her had been offended by his knee-jerk accusation. Why would he think she would conspire with Prunella? Another part of her had been hurt that he would doubt her trustworthiness. How could he put so little faith in her after what they had shared with each other? Still, there was another part of her that had taken charge in the moment, the part of her that had been worried sick about him.

She lamented silently to herself that she did not have her Infinity with her before remembering it was stuck in her back pocket.

_How convenient_, she thought as she reached for it and dialed Bailey. _I didn't have to look for it in my bag or anything…_

"Ah, Miss Muffy," said Bailey over the line. "Time to serve the black sorbet cups already?"

"Please, Bailey," she said urgently. "I need you to find Alan. He left on foot, and he's upset. Drive him home, follow him there if you have to. Just make sure he's safe."

"Right away, Miss Muffy."

She entered the mansion, coming face to face with Binky first, who asked, "Hey, is he gonna be all right?"

Not wishing to raise alarm, she said, as nonchalantly as she could, "Fine. Just pissed. You know how he is with New Age stuff. The incense really set him off. Bailey is going to take him home."

Binky nodded as if he understood. "Gave me a headache, too."

George was next up.

"Can I finish the Thriller?" he said eagerly.

"Yeah," Alex called out. "We were just getting into it!"

"You know what?" Muffy said, "Great idea—dance party!"

A few people cheered. She needed to stall until Bailey returned, anyway. She also needed a distraction. It was highly suspicious that the séance had already concluded, especially since Prunella had promised the guests an "unforgettable spiritual experience". Muffy did not want a bunch of gawkers hanging around in case things got ugly once she tracked Prunella down. She disappeared to the alcove where her laptop was obscured by a cluster of enormous urns. She restarted the playlist, beginning with "Thriller".

Prunella had not been hard to locate. She and Marina were back at the blood fountain station, picking up where they had left off. At least, Prunella was. Marina stood, arms crossed, looking confused.

"Marina was right," Prunella said with her mouth full as Muffy approached, "this cheesecake is delicious."

She shoveled the food in as if she were in a race to finish. Was she in a hurry to make an exit?

_You'd better get to the bottom of this before she does._

"You ended the séance already? That's a bit of a rush."

"Um, yeah," Prunella said around her food. "The spirits fell silent, but it's like that sometimes. Plus, I'm suddenly not feeling too well. My stomach is off—hope it's not flu."

She punctuated her fib by cramming in another cheesecake square, practically inhaling it.

Before Muffy could call her out, a car horn blasted outside the mansion.

"That's Mom," Prunella said happily as she dropped her plate back onto the station table. "I called her to come as quickly as she could and pick us up. Happy Samhain!"

With that, Prunella took Marina by the hand, and the two had hurried through the foyer and out of the mansion.

"Muffy, _girl_…" chided one of the Formosa associates playfully.

Muffy was on a first-name basis with the staff here, and this associate was named Bethany. Bethany was a brown rabbit girl in her late teens, who had long, glossy hair dyed the color of wine.

"You've been here thirty _frucking_ minutes, and, like, your basket is _still_ empty!"

Muffy had officially stepped into Formosa to get her hands on the much-hyped Turnt eyeshadow pallet from Chi-Chi Cosmetics, as well as anything else that sang to her. She had not physically shopped since her father lifted her sentence, and she was in need of serious retail therapy in light of the night before. Unfortunately, Muffy had arrived to find that the only Turnt pallet left was shattered, and she resigned to placing a hold on one once they restocked. After that, Muffy milled around the store aimlessly, only picking up some priming mist and setting powder to replenish the stock in her vanity.

"I know, Bethany. I'm just not feeling it today."

"O-M-G, I hope it's not flu. Like, my mom's a GP, and she says it's, like, really important to get a flu shot."

Muffy had caught the flu once when she was ten, and it had sucked. But, honestly, she would take the flu over what she was feeling right now.

_It would be better than a case of rep disease._

Muffy had thought Chip was being silly the other night, when he worried that Catherine would leave him over his bad reputation, but now she wondered if his fears might have been justified. Maybe there was a lot more to shaking a rep than turning over a new leaf. Maybe the bad rep created some sort of…karma deficit, and the new you had to work extra hard to make others forget the old you, to get out of the red and into the black.

Alan had easily forgotten the new Muffy once Prunella had triggered him, and that bothered her, especially since she had worked so hard to help him the best way she knew how, though, admittedly, she did not know much about how to handle someone like him. Apparently, her help had not been enough. In the back of Alan's mind, she was still the gossip queen.

Muffy had not spoken with Alan since last night, not because she did not want to, but because she was scared. What if he still blamed her after taking time to cool off? What if he did not want to tutor her anymore? What if the party to which she had invited him, in hopes of reawakening his social life, had somehow made him worse? A "yes" to any one of those questions would crush her. But all three? She did not know what she would do.

_This is ridiculous. Just call him._

"Are you ready to check out?"

_Your next tutoring session is coming up. You need to know either way._

"Muffy? You okay, girl?"

_You're friends. You should be able to talk about this. Don't try to hide from it like you did with your other problems._

She was the new Muffy, no matter what anyone thought, and this was the right thing to do. And if everything went wrong, maybe Bethany would console her in the break area while she cried.

"Sorry, Bethany," she said, handing her basket over to the girl. "Can you hold this for a sec? I need to step outside and make a call."

* * *

"Don't think about it, just do it," she muttered to herself once outside the Formosa entrance.

She pulled up her contacts and pressed Alan's name before she could even properly read it, and waited. It rang forever.

"Hello?" said a hoarse voice.

"Alan?"

"Muffy, hi."

He did not sound upset, but he did sound groggy. Maybe it had not set in yet.

"Were you asleep? I'm sorry I woke you."

"Oh, don't be sorry. It was an accident. I definitely needed to wake up."

"Well, yay, then," she said awkwardly before jumping into it. "Listen…are we good?"

"Good?" he said.

"You know…last night? Whatever Prunella was going on about, I swear she left me in the dark—"

"Oh, right…right. Don't worry, Muffy. We're good."

Her voice shook slightly as she held back tears of relief.

"Really?"

"Yeah. I've taken a lot of time to think it over, and I've eliminated you as a source of information. There is no doubt Prunella acted alone last night. What's more, I'm sure I know exactly what she was talking about… Muffy? Are you still there?"

"Yeah, I'm still here. I'm just surprised that you don't sound at least a little upset over the whole thing. That was some pretty dirty pool, whatever it was. I tried to call her out, but she left in a hurry. If I had known what she was planning, I never would have—"

"Don't take it out on yourself. I'm not mad about it anymore. As a matter of fact, I intend to turn it into what I hope will be a positive experience."

He sounded so serene, perhaps the most at peace she had ever heard him. His positivity was infectious.

"Awesome. That's awesome, Alan. So, we're on for Tuesday?"

"Definitely. Right after school."

"Great! See you then!"

"And Muffy?"

"What?"

"Thanks for the ride."

"You're welcome."

Muffy marched back into Formosa and asked Bethany for her basket. The Turnt pallet was unavailable, but that did not mean she would not find some gems lurking among the other collections. It was time to do some serious browsing.

She was elated by the turn of events. Why not be? Things were certainly looking up. Despite her karma deficit, Alan had used logic and reason to recognize her loyalty. Good for her. Despite Prunella's mischief, Alan had risen above it and had been able to move past it in a healthy manner. Good for him.

Muffy would not find out just how wrong she was about that last part until Monday afternoon.

_To be continued…_  
  
---


	13. Changes

  


Buster knew that not many teenagers would be thrilled to listen in on their parents' dinnertime conversations, but most teenagers did not know what they were missing, even if the conversations could be mind-numbing. It was Sunday evening, and all three Baxters had gathered once again for dinner. Since his father had told him he would be moving back to Elwood City, there had been times when Buster had given into the urge to pinch himself, to make sure he was not dreaming. He still felt the urge from time to time. The urge had come along this evening, in fact, but he had refrained. Sometimes change took a while to sink in. Adjusting to this new, exciting reality was getting easier as the weeks went by. Buster liked to think the gift he had received the night before helped, too.

"And you really had all this in the freezer, Bitz, just ready to go?" his father said, marveling over his generous serving of jambalaya.

His mother nodded, placing her water glass down.

"Sure did—well, except for the salad and whipped cream, but that only took about ten minutes. Fifteen, tops."

To the uninitiated, it would appear his mother had labored away her entire Sunday afternoon in the kitchen, preparing the spread before them. As a busy single mother with a career, the truth was she had all sorts of tricks up her sleeve to conquer dinnertime, including making meals ahead and freezing them. Even the Dutch apple pie they would have for dessert tonight had been lovingly made from scratch and frozen for just such an occasion. Maybe nobody did it _like_ Sara Lee, but, in Buster's opinion, his mom did it a lot better.

"That's incredible," said his father. "How do you make everything fit in there?"

"I have a sort of filing system—not joking!" she said when she caught him snickering. "I'll show you later."

"This jambalaya…" he said, bobbing his head slowly as one did when eating something so delicious and satisfying the only appropriate thing to do was nod in approval. "It has the perfect amount of spice. Reminds me of my trips to New Orleans. Where did you learn to make it like this?"

"Cisely Compson gave me her recipe. She's half Cajun…though I think this might be the Creole version. I'm not really sure."

Buster looked to his heaping bowl, plentiful with shrimp and sausage, and added several dashes of LeBeau's, a hot sauce Ladonna had given him for his birthday, anticipating the extra kick it would lend to the dish. LeBeau's was Ladonna's favorite, and not just because her cousins Geraldine and Remy owned the company that made it. ("The secret ingredients are scorpion peppers and carrots, but I won't say how much they use!") Extended family still living in Louisiana periodically mailed bottles of the stuff, along with some of their other favorite regional specialties, to the Compsons so they would always have a taste of home within reach. The act reminded Buster of the Food Boxes his father had curated for him over the years. He had finished off the last goodie ever, a packet of Bamba, a week ago. With his father's move and new career path just getting started, the Food Boxes likely were a thing of the past, which made him a little sad and nostalgic for them already. He never dwelled on it for too long before reminding himself he was getting something much better in exchange. Things of the past had nothing on the possibilities of the Baxters' future.

"So," he said, thinking about the future now, "how's the counselling going?"

His parents had recently begun grief counselling over the loss of Byron and were only a handful of sessions into their therapy. Before today, neither his father nor his mother had volunteered any information on how they were progressing. Since they were all together, Buster figured now was just as good a time as any to get the skinny. As soon as he uttered the innocent question, the scraping and clinking of flatware ceased, and his silent parents looked at him.

"Sorry," Buster said slowly. "Was that inappropriate?"

His father cut a sideways glance at his mother before they chanced a full-on look at each other. They fleetingly shared some kind of wordless communication before resuming their previous actions. His father gripped his fork tightly; his mother reached for her water and took a prolonged sip, consternation clear in her expression.

"It's, uh, it's going," his father offered, digging into his food again.

"Going…_well_?"

"It's…going," he told Buster more firmly this time. He looked remorseful for his inability to explain things better. He also seemed daunted by giving what little information he had. "It's a process. It's not always pleasant. Most of the time it isn't, actually, but…"

His father hesitated and took another look at his mother, who inclined her head, as if she understood she needed to assist.

"It's helping," she told Buster gently. "Sometimes hashing things out, examining certain things can be taxing, emotionally draining. It's probably best we don't revisit it at the dinner table. I hope you understand. But thanks for asking, sweetie."

"No, it's cool…"

Buster trailed off, not because his mother had shut him down on the subject, but because she had placed a hand on his father's forearm, perhaps a response to the pat on the shoulder he had given her in appreciation for her help. It was an unexpected sight to see, though not unwelcomed. To top it off, she had said counselling was helping them.

His parents had kept Byron, Elliot, and everything that led to their divorce hidden for so long, unable to talk about it. After their family confrontation outside the condo, the day Buster had pieced everything surrounding the mystery of his parents together, his mother had still avoided the subject due to the pain and shame it caused her. Buster did not know why she had suddenly welcomed the idea of seeing a grief counselor with her ex-husband, but he was elated that she had. His mother had seemed tired and quieter when she came home on therapy days, but, all in all, she was also happier, the happiest he had seen her since the days before his birthday. And now his parents were acknowledging their problems and getting help with them, supporting each other in awkward situations, and having dry conversations about meal prep. All of that was nothing if not encouraging.

"You don't have to say anything," Buster told them. "I'm happy for you guys, though."

His mother gave him a soft, appreciative smile.

"Why don't we talk about something exciting instead?" she said. "Tell us how _The Music Man_ is coming along, Professor."

There was a twinkle in his mother's eye as she said it. She had been proud that he had gotten the lead, even if she had burst into laughter when Buster recounted the odd circumstances under which he had won the role.

His father cleared his throat.

"Hey, before you do, kiddo, there's something I wanted to ask you. The hangar is ready for a tour, if your free this Saturday. How about it?"

"Are you serious? I've been waiting!"

That was another thing about which Buster had been curious. His father had told him that he and his business partner Rick would need some time to get settled before he could visit. Rick had come out of retirement to purchase and run the Ingram Flight School a few towns over, and he had convinced his father to run it with him. Buster had eagerly been awaiting the day he would be able to check it out. Once his parents agreed on a three-thirty pick-up time on Saturday, Buster filled them in on what was happening with school musical rehearsals.

"And we're still learning choreography. Binky is…let's just say he has high expectations. He calls himself an 'innovator", but Fern calls him a 'taskmaster'. Personally, I think he's just trying to trip up George."

"It sounds like it's shaping up to be a real spectacle," his father said with a laugh. "And you said it opens in November? Can't wait to see it."

Buster could not wait for him to see it, either.

Ladonna's pep talk had gone a long way toward boosting his confidence, emboldening him enough to inject more comedic actions, or, as she had put it, "Buster Baxter flair" into his performance. The way he saw it, the audience was in on the joke alongside Harold, and so he played to that fact, delivering his lines with more of a wink and a nod to the people in the seats rather than trying to be smooth one hundred percent of the time. He also made use of his skills with different voices and accents, which made the portions of the play during which the River City townsfolk were enamored by Harold's flimflammery a ton of fun to act out. It felt more like a comedy bit, which was fine by him.

Ladonna had been intuitive when she had offered her advice. Coach Sorrell had praised him for being bold. Maria, Binky, and the rest of the cast had loved his choices. George had especially thought Buster was funny.

"I knew you would grow into it eventually!" Fern had said, smiling proudly at him after his energetic performance of "Ya Got Trouble". "I mean, you still lack Harold's speed and diction, but I can help you with that, no problem."

In a way, he regretted wanting to avoid Fern these past few days. She only wanted to help, even if it was by micromanaging every single facet of his performance. It was ironic that, after fighting so hard to get her to talk to him again, he was not interested in anything she had to say. It was always about the play, day-in, day-out. He never complained because she seemed happy and he did not want to hurt her feelings. Mostly, he tuned her out, figuring that, though intense, it was harmless.

Fern's intensity was one of her more defining traits. She was an actor's actor, as much as she was a writer's writer or a detective's detective. When she was in, she was all in, eating, sleeping, and breathing the game until she was satisfied. On the other hand, he was a jester, the elected class clown of Mill Creek Middle. When Fern took the stage, she sold the audience on a character. When he took the stage, he just wanted them to have a good time. Nothing wrong with either approach, but they were two different approaches, no doubt. Different approaches for two very different people.

Hopefully, she would go back to normal Fern once the play was over. But what if this was normal Fern, or part of normal Fern, at least. He did not know if he would ever be sure.

After dinner, Buster set to clearing and cleaning the dining room as his mother showed his father her intricately-stacked freezer. Their amused voices wafted from the kitchen.

"I guess my biggest question is how do you make sure it doesn't taste freezer burned…"

"You have a lot to learn, Bo," his mother laughed. "The offer is still on the table if you want those recipes…"

They carried on, and Buster listened to them while they chatted. He was not paying much attention to the words, just their tone and inflection, how friendly they sounded.

_They're like regular people. We're like a regular family._

His thoughts wandered to the parents' night photo. He would be forever grateful to Ladonna for snagging it for him. He had not shown the picture to either of his parents, unsure of how they might feel about it. Instead, he had kept it to himself, tucking it in the pocket at the back of his health workbook as soon as he got home from Muffy's last night. He would store it in his locker until he was sure it was safe to display. He had stared at the picture for a long while before turning in for the night. It solidified his confidence that his parents were on the right path, something else that made him feel gratitude toward Ladonna.

He wished there was something he could do to show her how much he appreciated the gesture, appreciated her for just being her. Ladonna was so nice, one of the most genuinely nice people he had ever met. She got joy out of making others feel joy, and she was a good friend. She had taught him so many peculiar things, like how to eat honeysuckle nectar or how to catch mudbugs, and she had always been thrilled to share her knowledge. If only there were something he could give her in return that would blow her away, the way she had done for him at Muffy's Halloween party.

He thought about what she might like.

_Fried pickles? _

A great suggestion, but they might become soggy during transport, which would diminish the wow factor. He needed a solid plan, something that would astonish her, something that would make her smile. Recent conversations with her replayed in his mind as he picked them apart, searching for an indication of what that something could be. After several moments, he landed on an interesting fact she had let slip just a few days ago. It had certainly stuck out to him at the time.

_Yeah… Yeah! _

That just might be the thing, but he would definitely need help. And permission.

He waited until the evening was over and his father was on his way to his car to approach him about it.

"Hey, Dad? Can I ask a pretty big favor?"

_To be continued…_


	14. The Turnaround

"Zen Master!"

Muffy hailed Alan Monday afternoon, right after final bell. she had missed him in the morning and somehow managed to miss him at lunch as well. It was important that she talk to him today, however, so she had made a point to get out of last period in time to catch him at his locker.

"Oh, hi," Alan said, pulling on a rumpled navy-blue jacket.

The collar had unfolded with the motion and was now sticking straight up. Alan was quick to fold it down again and smooth it out.

"You're on your way to Belmont now, right?"

"Right, but I need to let you know…"

Her phone was in her hand, ready to touch base with her brother and let him know she was on her way. She held it up as if it would help her demonstrate.

"I had to uninstall Study Buddy from my Infinity," she said, speaking of the prog Alan had created for her as a study aid. "It was kind of buggy after your last update."

"Really?" he said, sounding apologetic. "Man… I should've tested it myself first, but I didn't this time. I'm sorry, Muffy. Thanks for telling me. I'll look into it as soon as I can."

"Cool," she said. "Have a good afternoon!"

"Before you go…" he said hastily as he shouldered his bag, "Do you think I could use your garage on tutoring days to work on a project? I would only need about half an hour after every session. Just for a while?"

Muffy cocked her head to one side as she thought about it. No one really used the garage at the Crosswire estate unless Bailey needed to fix something or her father wanted to pay one of his cars a visit. She doubted a couple of weeknights would be a problem. The request still struck her as odd.

"I don't see why not, but why do you need our garage? Don't you have a whole workshop to yourself?"

Alan hesitated.

"I do. You're right, I do. But, my parents… How to explain… They would rather I not spend time in there for a while. It's part of the silly hiatus they've imposed on me. They assume it will help me reduce stress. Restrictions—what a pain, am I right?"

Alan smiled a hearty smile that did not seem altogether genuine. He also looked tired. This was the first Muffy had heard of restrictions. Aside from their tutoring sessions on Tuesdays and Thursdays, she assumed he had carried on with his schedule as normal.

"What kind of restrictions?" she said, trying not to sound too nosy.

"Oh, nothing. They think I'm fragile," he said with an obviously fake laugh, "so they've banned me from work and the shop."

He did not elaborate, but she felt as if he were still holding back. Muffy grew more concerned. If he was supposedly resting and reducing his stress, why did he have impressive bags under his eyes for a fifteen-year-old? He had sounded so positive over the phone yesterday, yet here he stood, looking as tired and disheveled as he had the day in the ice cream shop, when she had solicited him to be her tutor. Something must be up.

"And you can't wait until after they lift your restrictions to work on your project?"

"Maybe, but I'd like to at least make some headway. Working on it, even in minute increments, will make a substantial difference in my progress. I'll be several steps ahead once I finally make it back into my shop."

"Is your project for school?"

She was certain she knew the answer. If it had been for school, he likely would not need to hide it from his parents.

"It's—why are you asking so many questions?"

His façade was beginning to crack. He sounded irritated, something else reminiscent of that day in the ice cream shop.

"Because," Muffy said evenly in as much effort to keep herself calm as it was to soothe Alan, "now I'm not so sure I should say 'yes' to you, not if it's against your parents wishes. What are you working on?"

"Muffy—"

"I can't let you do it unless I know what it is or why it's so important that it can't wait. You'll be working in my house, after all. If it's dangerous, then—"

"It's not dangerous, I swear. You won't have to worry about me damaging anything."

"I'm not talking about wrecking the garage," she said pointedly.

Alan shifted his weight from one foot to the other, sucking in a frustrated sigh through his teeth.

"Don't— Don't be like them, please. Anyway, if I told you, you'd just think it's weird."

"Probably, yeah. So just tell me. You're not getting the O-K from me until you do."

He held back a wince and exhaled, long and deep. He looked from side to side, ensuring no one was close enough to be interested in what he was saying, then got closer to her.

"So… So, you remember Saturday night, right, and all the things Prunella said about Lydia?"

How could she forget?

"It's all I have been able to think about, just going over it again and again. I _think_—and I can't believe I'm saying this—that she was telling me the truth."

Muffy could not believe she had worried. Alan really had been feeling better. He was cracking jokes. Her giggles were soft, and she swatted him lightly on his chest.

"For a second there, you really had me going."

Alan's face fell.

"As I suspected, you think it's weird."

"You're serious? Wait—is this what you mean by turning Saturday into a positive experience? Positive how? And what does my garage have to do with it?"

"I did some research. There are some…things I can do…devices I can build that might help me determine if…I'm being haunted. There, I said it."

"Haunted? Alan, what's going on? What did Prunella say that convinced you you're being haunted?"

"There's a lot more to it than just the séance. I don't have the time to explain it all thoroughly right now, so just trust me. A lot of inexplicable things have been happening. I've been having an inordinate amount of strange dreams. And they feel so real, to the point where I'm uncertain where they end and reality begins. I have reason to believe lights have turned themselves on. And everything Prunella said was alarmingly accurate, down to very intimate details, and there is no explanation for how she knew. If Lydia has been watching over me, like Prunella said…if she contacted me through Prunella, then maybe there's a way I can speak with her directly, cut out the middle man, literally. If Prunella can do it, perhaps I can, too. Now, according to the research I've done, there are several data points that can be collected when trying to detect paranormal activity…"

Muffy was horrified, not able to believe what she was hearing. He had been doing so well. As he quietly rattled off the different meters and devices he planned to construct, she wondered how he had managed to fall so far in such a brief amount of time. Somehow, Prunella had managed to rip Alan to shreds, reducing him to the Buster Baxter of ghost hunting. And she hated her for it.

"So I just need a few hours and maybe I can get to the bottom of what's been happening to me."

He sounded manic, fearful, excited. His stare was wide.

"I can't do it without your help, though, Muffy. Please say 'yes'."

_How in the hell am I supposed to respond to all that?_

She could not agitate him, that was for certain. Agitating Alan never worked out well.

"I get it," she said as brightly as she could manage. "Totally. You're approaching this like a true scientist. That's so _you_."

_This is _so_ not you._

"But don't take this the wrong way, Alan. If you're experiencing such…unique problems, the dreams and inexplicable…stuff—"

"Unexplained phenomena," he supplied.

"Yeah…phenomena. _That_. If you're experiencing these problems, don't you think maybe there are _other_ avenues you could explore that would help you solve them?"

"You're right," he said. "I could purchase a Ouija board. I didn't even consider that."

He had said it without a trace of sarcasm. Was he really that far gone?

"No," Muffy said carefully. "I _mean_ you should seriously consider consulting a _professional_. You know, someone who has experience with this kind of stuff?"

She had looked into his eyes and said it slowly, hoping to convey to Alan what she meant without having to say it aloud and potentially embarrass him in front of the groups of students passing them by. He needed to talk to Dr. Hartmann-Krause about this today, without question. She hoped he would agree with her.

Alan fell quiet, thoughtful. He dipped his head in a shameful manner.

"I thought about that as well," he said, "but I don't know if I can. I've been very dismissive, ignored her advice for far too long. I'd feel really foolish approaching her with this. I'd have to swallow a lot of pride, and I'm not sure I have the courage to do that."

"It's never too late to ask for help," she said reassuringly. "She has years of experience with this stuff. She'll understand, I'm sure. I doubt there's anything you could tell her that would shock her, and she'll be glad you opened up. That's what she's there for, Alan. Don't be afraid."

He nodded.

"You're right, as much as I hate to admit it. I suppose we all have to do what we must in pursuit of results, humble ourselves, no matter how embarrassing."

"You can do it." She patted his arm gingerly. "I have confidence in you."

Alan checked his watch and lowered his voice.

"I have to hurry if I want to make my appointment. I'll put the project on hold, for now, at least, until after I've spoken with her about it."

"That's the best idea I've heard all day. I think you'll be happy you did. In fact, I know you will."

"Yeah… Yeah. I'm feeling optimistic about it now, thanks to you. Have fun with your brother."

"Always. And you have a good…visit today."

"Sure," he said, backing away as if eager to make it to the exit. "And don't worry, Study Buddy will be fully operational in no time."

* * *

The limo passed the sign posted on the side of the interstate.

**Belmont**

**EXIT 1 MILE**

A small container of chocolate croissants sat in the seat next to Muffy. They were a favorite of her brother's. This morning, when she had requested Bailey bake some for the trip this evening, Muffy could not wait to present them to Chip. It had been too long since the breakfast goodie basket, too long since she had been able to remind him of the benefits of being close to home. She had her life back now, though, and she was on the verge of keeping it that way, once she won the wager with her father. She would then have the freedom to resume her mission to win her brother over without the threat of her father's wrath hanging over her. As a bonus, Chip was coming to the mansion soon for Thanksgiving. For the Crosswires, things were looking nowhere if not up.

Muffy looked over at the croissants now, however, and the anticipation was no longer there. Her encounter with Alan this afternoon had killed any excitement she had felt over her scheduled visit. Worry over her friend's behavior seeped in, even though she had managed to talk some sense into him at the end of their conversation. She wished she could have foreseen his relapse, or, at the very least, could have sensed Prunella was up to something sinister and shot down her séance idea. Although she had been unaware of Prunella's plan, she felt responsible for what happened. The more she thought about the trick she had pulled, the livider she grew. How dare Prunella use her? How dare she use her to get to someone else, especially someone as fragile as Alan, especially when their friendship was in the process of strengthening. Prunella likely had not realized the gravity of what she had done, but that was beside the point. Whether she had meant to scar Alan with the séance or not, she owed him an apology and an explanation. If Prunella made it clear to Alan that Saturday night was a prank and nothing more, it might go a long way in helping Alan recover.

Prunella had been slippery at the party, making her exit before Muffy could let her have it, further evidence of her malice.

Muffy thought about the oath she had made to her father, that she would try to be better. She thought about her karma deficit and the work that was still ahead of her to prove herself. Sitting around, merely hoping things would get better for Alan was not an option, not when there was something she could do to speed things up. She needed to act right now.

"Muffler, 'sup?" Chip said over the phone line.

"I know this is super late notice," she said, "but I won't be able to make it today."

"_You're_ cancelling on me now, too?"

"Sorry. Look at it this way—maybe you can see Catherine tonight instead."

"Nope. I can't. She's having dinner with the girls tonight at her apartment. I'm all alone. It's becoming a recurring theme in my life…"

Chip sounded glum, disappointed. As much as she felt for him, she did not have time to listen to him bemoan his loneliness.

"I know. I'm really, _really_ sorry, but a problem has come up, and I need to take care of it A-S-A-P."

"The _big guy_?" he offered.

"What? No. Trust me, this is nothing I can't handle. I'll talk to you soon, Chip, I promise. Love you. Mean it."

As soon as the call ended, Muffy rolled down the cabin's partition window.

"Bailey, the Belmont plans are cancelled this week."

"Is everything all right, Miss Muffy?"

"It's fine," she said matter-of-factly. "Or it's going to be soon enough. Take me back to Elwood City, please. I need to pay Prunella Deegan a friendly little visit."

Perhaps Prunella had managed to escape the Halloween party, but she could not evade Muffy forever.

_To be continued…_


	15. Interventions

The limo rolled up to the curb a few houses down from the Deegan residence. Safety-conscious Bailey never blocked driveways or parked close to fire hydrants. As soon as the vehicle came to a stop, Muffy was ready to pounce, exiting flawlessly into a purposeful march toward the front stoop. The door was not locked, and Muffy was glad. Knocking and asking for permission to enter was the last thing she felt like doing right now. Prunella did not deserve that courtesy. Focused on the task at hand, she made a beeline for the stairs and ascended them, stomping as she did, until she reached the loft landing.

Both Prunella and Marina were in the loft, engaged, Muffy assumed in their respective homework assignments. Prunella lay prone atop her bed, chin resting in her hands, as she read from her laptop. Marina sat at the round table with a book open in front of her. A sizeable bowl filled with tortilla chips as well as two smaller bowls of salsa and guacamole sat on the table ahead of her, along with two cans of grape soda, one regular, one diet.

Marina had been the first to become aware of Muffy's presence. She had paused in the middle of turning a page and tilted her head as if anticipating hearing someone speak. Immersed in her reading, Prunella still had no idea she was in the room with them, not until she cleared her throat angrily, shooting her what Muffy hoped was a menacing look. Prunella glanced her way and back to her computer, only to gasp as she did a double-take, looking surprised. As well, she looked frightened.

_She should be._

Prunella never really had a fair shot at being the first to become indignant.

"What are—"

"You need to fix this mess you've created, Prunella," Muffy said, cutting her off.

"What's going on?" said Marina, dropping her page. "Muffy, is that you?"

"What are you doing here, Muffy?" Prunella said as she moved to sit on the edge of her bed. Just who do you think you are, strutting in here uninvited?"

Prunella's words tried to convey that she was furious at Muffy's audacity, to barge into her home and boss her around for no good reason, but she lacked conviction. Her wiry frame was tense. A wide-eyed expression of a child caught sneaking cookies betrayed she knew the jig was up.

"I'm the friend you bamboozled into hosting a séance just so you could scare the hell out of Alan, and I'm not happy."

Prunella stood.

"You need to relax. Okay? You're acting like I stole your jewelry, or something. It was just a prank, and not even a great one. People were entertained at a Halloween party. You should be thanking me. As a plus, I got some payback on the know-it-all. So what? After the aggravation he has caused me, I think it's high time. No one got hurt, so why are you so upset?"

"I don't appreciate being used," Muffy said, ignoring the look Prunella was giving her, one that said she enjoyed the irony of a user disliking the concept of being used. "And just so you know, someone did get hurt. You really shook Alan. He's been having bad dreams, and he somehow thinks it's tied to your phony spiritual connection."

Prunella took a moment to savor that bit of information. Huffing out a small, delighted laugh.

"You're serious? That's funny."

Muffy wanted to shake her.

"It really isn't. You disturbed him, and it's pretty deep. I don't care what kind of vendetta you've got against him, but you are going to make things right."

"Why do you care so much, Muffy?"

There was not much Muffy could tell Prunella that would not give Alan and his struggles away. She had sworn her confidence to him, and he still worried about her keeping the promise she had made to him in the limo cabin. How to get the point across to Prunella and spare his secrets, his feelings?

_Take one for the team_, she thought.

And what team was that, exactly?

_Why, Team Hot Mess, of course. We have our problems, and we hold our secrets dear._

She could take responsibility for this. She would have to.

_Oh, go on. Everyone already thinks the worst of you. It's an easy sell._

She was trying to cure her rep disease. This would not bring her any closer to the black as far as her karma deficit was concerned.

_Whatever. I can take the setback. Alan can't._

"Haven't you figured it out?" Muffy said. "Alan is my tutor. I'm his tutee. I can't get my life back fully and completely without his help, and he can't help me if he's a nervous wreck. Pretty simple."

Though she had said it to help Alan save face, it occurred to Muffy that there was truth to it. She needed Alan's help. In turn, Alan needed to be healthy enough to function in order to help her. It amazed her that this had ended up being her BS excuse and not her original concern. Not long ago, her problems likely would have been the only ones that mattered to her.

Prunella still looked skeptical.

"Yeah? You're sure that's all? I would have expected you to find _another_ tutor after he lost it on you at the library. It sounded like he threw some pretty epic burns at you. The Muffy Crosswire I know wouldn't have taken that lying down, but not only are you still paying him, you're like his bestie-slash-babysitter. Don't think I didn't notice you chasing after him Saturday night. Why are you two so chummy lately?"

"Because, duh, he's literally the only person I've been allowed to hang out with since last month."

"But you're on parole, right? Why stick so closely with him now? Ah… I get it. Ooh la la, Miss Crosswire."

Muffy shook her head.

"It's not like that."

"Then what's it like?"

"You really are ridiculous."

Muffy fought not to become flustered by the accusation.

"Sure. I knew you were a fan of abusive romances in fiction, but who knew you'd pursue one in real life."

"You know," Muffy said crossing her arms, "just because two people spend an inordinate amount of time together, that doesn't mean they are _together_ together. If that were the case, I could apply your logic to countless people…even to you and Marina—"

"You shut your mouth, Muffy!" Prunella snapped.

Until now, Prunella had only been offended by the unannounced visit, but now Muffy's comment had flat-out angered her. Muffy had never seen her like this. Prunella's outburst had only lasted a second, cooling as quickly as it had flashed, but it had been raw and severe. Prunella avoided Muffy's gaze. Muffy stole a quick glance at Marina. The girl had dipped her head as she, Muffy supposed, feigned interest in her book, her cheeks pink.

_Oh. Wow._

Did this mean what she suspected it meant? Was there something more to Prunella and Marina's friendship.? She had not considered that Prunella might be interested in girls. In hindsight it made sense why she never talked about guys or low-key deflected whenever Muffy brought it up. For years, Muffy had treated Prunella as if she were just as straight as she was. How uncomfortable that must have made her. While this was certainly an interesting revelation to have any other day, she was on a mission and could not allow herself to be deterred.

Prunella had seemed to pull herself together and, once again, she deflected, this time back to Muffy and Alan's non-existent romance with, "You're even starting to sound like him."

Muffy willed her temper to stay at a level of extreme annoyance. It would be impossible to go any lower than that.

"The bottom line is I'm not leaving until you promise you'll apologize to Alan and explain to him how you knew all that stuff about Lydia Fox."

"You can't force me to—Lydia _who_? Are you talking about the wheelchair girl?"

"Oh, my god…" Marina muttered at Prunella's insensitivity. She looked more and more displeased as the argument between Muffy and Prunella went on.

"Brain thinks this has something to do with his geeky friend? I haven't seen her around. Does she even live in this town anymore?"

"She _died_ two years ago," Muffy said. "It happened in her sleep… Wait a minute… You didn't know that?"

"Sorry," Prunella said, shaking her head. "She was in a different grade and went to a different school. I can't keep up with everybody."

"But…then…if you didn't even know she had died…you weren't talking about her at the séance."

"No, but I almost wish I had known. It would have made things so much easier. Do you know how hard I had to work for something I could use? We're talking some pretty deep cuts."

Prunella thought for a moment.

"What makes that girl so special anyway?"

Like Alan, Muffy was all in on the speculation that Prunella knew something about him and Lydia. Knowing now that was not the case, Muffy feared that she had already said too much. She did not know how far Alan and Lydia had taken things in their relationship. Alan had said he made his feelings clear to Lydia, however, which meant there must have been some progression, possibly even a kiss. She did not know for sure, and there was no way she would speak of it and provide Prunella with even more ammunition, especially not when she was on a mission to undo some damage.

"Never mind that. Who were you talking about at the séance? What kind of deep cuts?"

Prunella said nothing.

"Fess up, or I swear, Prunella, I'll make you regret it until you do."

"Fine, if you'll stop screeching about it. It was Brain's grandmother. Are you happy?"

"Grandmother?"

"Look, all I wanted to do was rattle him a little at the party, embarrass him and give him a moment of doubt in front of everybody. He's the king of skeptics, so I knew it wouldn't last long. But I was willing to take what I could get. The night I proposed the séance, on the way home from the Trifecta of Terror, I searched for something I could use. He used to cry constantly in kindergarten, which humiliated him, but there was nothing really juicy… Then I remembered that what I needed happened on the very first day of school in 1999. From what I gathered through his tears, he was upset because he had accidentally broken his grandmother's heirloom teapot. I remember that was the first time I had ever heard the word 'heirloom'. Over the weekend, he and his mother visited his grandmother. There had been tea and strawberry shortcake after lunch. Everyone was happy, he said, until he knocked the teapot off the table, and it smashed on the floor. He kept saying that, even though his grandmother told him it was okay, he knew deep down that she would be mad at him forever. Two years ago, I heard his grandmother died. Complications with heart surgery. I pieced everything together and thus the freak out at the séance."

If Alan's grandmother had passed two years ago, Muffy had not known about it.

"Is that the truth?"

"The whole truth and nothing but," Prunella said with a solemn nod.

"Because if you're lying to me, I swear I'll find out."

Muffy was still unwilling to come down from attack mode.

"And when I find out, you're not going to want to be anywhere near—"

"Muffy?"

That was Alan's voice. Muffy whirled around to see him on the landing, looking confused but antsy.

"You said you were going to Belmont," he said. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm taking care of business. What are _you_ doing here?"

"Same. I'm here to do what we discussed earlier, that is to say."

"Uh…what?"

From the way Alan was looking at her, he had not expected her to be so confused.

"Remember, when you said I should consult a professional…but now I'm beginning to suspect we were thinking of different things."

"You thought I meant you should ask Prunella for help?"

He nodded meekly.

"Hold, please," Muffy said to Prunella. "Alan—stairs. Now."

She took Alan by the arm and led him midway down the staircase and said, "Seriously?"

Alan shifted his weight, looking uneasy. He placed one foot on the next step up as if to say he intended to go back to the loft no matter what Muffy had to say.

"Well…this is rather a unique situation, and Prunella has received payment for her work before, thereby making her a professional… I was sure this was what you were suggesting."

Muffy gaped at him.

"I never would have suggested this. I was talking about…" She got close and whispered, "I was talking about your friend Paula. Did you even talk to her about it this afternoon?"

Alan looked at his sneaker.

"_Oh my god._" she said loudly through gritted teeth. "I didn't think I needed to spell it out for you. She's the obvious choice—educated, not to mention competent. And just for future reference, so there will never be any confusion, Prunella is _never_ the answer. To _anything_."

Alan waited a moment as if to ensure Muffy was finished ranting.

"Is that it?"

"No. Maybe it's a good thing you're here after all. Come with me," she said as she took him by the elbow again. "There's something you need to hear…"

They re-entered the loft to a cross Prunella.

"I could hear you slagging me."

"Good," Muffy said, guiding Alan closer to her. "Go on, Prunella, tell Alan everything you told me. Put this to rest once and for all."

Prunella looked to the ceiling and shook her head. With all the enthusiasm of a child being made to apologize by her parent, she began.

"Okay… I heard you were a little disturbed Saturday night, but you can relax now, all right? It was just a prank."

"Was it though?" Alan said.

"Um…yes?"

"No, I don't think so. That's why I'm here this afternoon. I have been considering contacting you for your services ever since I got home from Muffy's party. The only thing holding me back was my pride. I've dismissed you, said some less-than-nice things over the years, but I'm here to ask for your forgiveness and see if there is anything you can do for me. What you did was nothing short of astounding."

"You're not hearing me. It was a prank, Brain. I must've really messed with you, because dragging up your grandmother's teapot was not astounding."

"It— What? My grandmother's…?"

"Listen to me," Prunella said, and she explained everything she had confessed to Muffy, from her plot in the limo after the Trifecta of Terror to cobbling together the memories of the teapot and of his grandmother dying post heart surgery. "'The thing you have been wondering about,'" she repeated. "'The _heirloom_…' It's the teapot; that's where I got my ideas. This had nothing to do with Lydia."

"Except…" Alan said, face twisted with confusion, "that never happened."

"Yes, it did," Prunella whined. "I had to listen to you cry about that teapot for an entire day, so I think I know what I'm talking about."

"Sure, some of it happened but you don't have all your facts straight. My grandmother didn't die."

Prunella's mouth fell open. Muffy had known that part could not be true.

"No..." Prunella stammered. "But I thought… Your grandmother had complications with heart surgery two years ago."

"She had an infection, but she made a full recovery. She lives in Boerne, Texas with my aunt and uncle. Besides, she's not even the grandmother whose teapot I destroyed."

"No?"

Alan shook his head. "She's alive, too, if you're wondering."

"Maybe you should have done a little research" Muffy said with a smirk, happy this was all falling apart for Prunella. "You're even bad at scheming."

"I was only trying to get back at you for a second or two," Prunella said, ignoring Muffy. "Sorry if you misinterpreted things or read more into it."

"I don't think I'm misinterpreting anything, Prunella."

"Well, if I pull memories from the top of my head, whether they're real or not, then, I hate to say it, you kind of _are_."

"What if it wasn't off the top of your head?"

_What?_ thought Muffy.

"What?" said Prunella.

"The things you said Saturday night struck me in a way I have never experienced, gave me a feeling I can't shake, even though it goes against everything I've ever learned or believed. Too much has happened over the past two years for me to write it off as merely coincidental. One coincidence? Fine. It's just a coincidence. Two? Three? Then combine them with your past accuracy, add a little physical evidence, and, well…I can't help but believe it all deserves further examination."

"I don't follow," Prunella said.

_You and me both_, thought Muffy.

"My past accuracy?"

"I'll get to that," Alan said, taking something from his jacket pocket. It was a chess piece, a queen from the look of it, pale and wooden. He held it out to Prunella, lifting it so she was staring at its round base.

"Tell me what you see," he said.

Prunella squinted.

"Hmmm… Kind of looks like a little stick man doing jumping jacks."

Alan sighed and rotated the piece slightly.

"Now?"

"The letters O and K?" said Prunella.

"Precisely," Alan said, looking triumphant.

"What does that mean?"

"It was an inside joke I shared with Lydia. It originated the day we… On the day it originated, we ate strawberries and drank Darjeeling tea. I never knew which variety of tea my mom and grandmother drank at lunch, so how did you come up with that specific tea during the séance?"

Prunella thought, looking unsure of herself.

"I don't know, I just really like the taste of Darjeeling," she offered. "It's the Champagne—"

"—of teas," said Alan. "So I've heard. It also happened to be Lydia's favorite. Two years ago, you saw a chessboard in the Tent of Portent, when you read your crystal for Lydia. You saw her and her grandmother playing chess."

He began to pace in front of a still-perplexed Prunella.

"This queen belongs to that chessboard, which was bequeathed to Lydia upon her grandmother's death. It's an _heirloom_. A few days after…Lydia's death, her parents gave the set to me, and it's been in my possession ever since. I think it's worth noting that her parents claimed to come up with the idea of giving me the set 'out of the blue' and 'right at the same time'."

Muffy wanted to stop this madness. Prunella, on the other hand was listening intently.

"Lydia always played white. She used to joke that I could use the advantage of seeing her first move," Alan continued, suppressing the tiniest smile at the memory. "I think there is a strong possibility Lydia scratched the letters on the bottom of the queen, but I don't know why. If you knew her… All of her collectibles were in pristine shape, and, according to her parents, this was one of her most prized items. I can't see her damaging it unless she had a good reason. Maybe she had a feeling that something was about to happen to her and left it for me to find, or, less likely but I won't rule it out, the letters appeared postmortem. Regardless, if there's any possible way, I'd like to find out why she did it."

"You think it's a message for you?" said Prunella.

"Maybe. But you were right, an heirloom was damaged, and I have been wondering about it. The day Mr. and Mrs. Fox gave the set to me, I…let's just say I wasn't feeling my best. I lashed out in anger, and I ended up smashing one corner of the board. It was perfect until then, if you don't count the letters scratched into it, I suppose. I have felt guilty about it ever since that day. I figure Lydia would be disappointed in me if she knew what I had done. Like you, I thought these marks were a stick figure, that is, until the night of Muffy's party, when you said to me—"

Prunella's expression lit up.

"The heirloom… The thing you have been wondering about for some time…" she repeated slowly.

"It's—"

"Okay?"

"Yes! Except she truncated it, to the letters O and K. It's okay. Could this be her way of telling me she forgives me? Or could she be using our inside joke as a way to get my attention? What if there are other things she wants to say? I would like to know for sure."

"So, what I told you at the séance…" Prunella mused, "was true."

"Not just the séance," he said. "At the Tent of Portent as well. You predicted Lydia's death. You told her that you saw her deceased grandparents in your crystal, beckoning her. You told me to beware Halloween and that my future would be filled with tears, darkness, and fear. Lydia died on Halloween, days after your reading, and things have been…difficult ever since."

So this was the reason Alan had fallen so far. It would soon be two years since Lydia's passing, and with all these strange coincidences—Muffy refused to consider them as anything but coincidences—surrounding her death, Alan lived with the weight of them on his mind. It was heartbreaking, not to mention disgusting that Prunella had gotten to him on such a deep level, even if it had been on accident. She expected Prunella to come to her senses and tell Alan as much, to make him understand. Instead, Prunella had never looked happier.

"You're saying that I might actually have a gift after all? I. Freaking. Knew. It. I _knew_ it! I knew I was gifted!"

Alan pocketed the queen and faced Prunella, wringing his hands. It was not exactly a pleading gesture, but it was close.

"I have unanswered questions. I know you and I don't have a good history, but are you willing to help me?"

"You bet your sweet socks I am!"

As Alan and Prunella discussed how to proceed, excitement radiating from them, Muffy felt as if she were the one being pranked. A lead-heavy feeling of foreboding sat in her stomach. She looked at Marina who sat still, her arms folded on top of her open book. Her brow was furrowed and her lips were pressed together, looking as if she were concentrating on what Alan and Prunella were saying. Muffy moved to stand next to Marina, leaned over and uttered, "Hey."

Marina tilted her head upward, giving Muffy her attention.

"What do you make of this?" Muffy said in a low voice.

Marina sighed softly.

"Personally? I think we're the only sensible people in the room."

"I thought I got through to her, and now she does a one-eighty on me."

"What can I say? That's Prunella."

"I've got to stop her," said Muffy.

"You can try."

She would do more than try. When she looked back to Alan and Prunella, however, they were shaking hands. Alan looked manic, fearful, excited, the same mix of emotions he had expressed at his locker this afternoon. Prunella was grinning broadly.

"Deal," she said. "A second séance. Check back with me and let me know how it goes. Even if it doesn't pan out, we'll find an appropriate place to hold it and Marina and I will meet you there Saturday evening."

"Perfect," said Alan. "I'll be in touch."

He exited the loft without so much as a word to Muffy.

Muffy glared at Prunella, who stared wistfully after Alan, as if he had just asked her out and she were delighted to accept.

"What did you do?" Muffy hissed at her. "_What's_ going on?"

The menace in Muffy's demands had no effect on Prunella. She could not hide her satisfied smile when she said, "Hopefully we'll find out on Saturday night."

Muffy stopped herself before she could lose it on Prunella, deciding instead to chase after Alan, growling in frustration as she, too, exited the loft as quickly as she could. She caught up with him outside, just as he had reached his bike.

"I presume you're going to harangue me about not approaching Dr. Hartmann-Krause with this," Alan said, not looking at her. "Please don't be upset."

"She was the obvious choice, Alan!"

"But you're going to be upset anyway," he said resignedly.

"Very, _very_, obvious, and the fact that I thought of it and you didn't kind of worries me—oh… You've been BS-ing your way through therapy, haven't you? It all makes sense now. This is your new escape."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Alan said defensively.

"Come on… You've found this one thing you think will bring you comfort and you're throwing yourself into it instead of dealing with your problems. You're caught up in this spiritualism thing, just like with your fix-it projects. You're just going to start this all over again."

"That's just— Not even remotely—"

"Why is it that _I_ can see the pattern but you can't?" she said desperately. "This isn't you. You were doing so well, and now it's like you've forgotten about all the progress you've made. You're ignoring your health to…to chase ghosts—"

"For your information, I plan on telling Dr. Hartmann-Krause. At some point. If I'm wrong, maybe. But she is my contingency plan. This is plan A. I need time, that's all, just a little more time."

There was no getting through to Alan. Muffy backed away from him slowly.

"No," she said. "I can't let this happen again."

She spun around and walked toward the limo.

"What are you planning on doing?" Alan said.

"Telling your dad. He must be home by now."

"You can't!"

"Sorry, but I'm calling for an intervention."

"What about your wager with your father?"

Muffy stopped.

"Did you forget that?"

She had not forgotten it. She had even remembered it during her argument with Prunella. In her panic, however, it just didn't seem like a huge priority.

"Double punishment, Muffy," he said, his voice growing nearer to her.

She turned to see him catching up to her slowly.

"Are you willing to go it alone? Because that's exactly what will happen if you tell my parents. Say goodbye to our Tuesday and Thursday sessions. Think of your freedom. Think of your brother. _Think_ of your father's good graces. You're putting it all at risk."

Alan looked as if he were holding back something else he wanted to say but swallowed it down. He was not wrong. He had helped her a great deal in a short amount of time. Muffy had come very far, and the success rate would be hard to duplicate on her own. There was also the unspoken matter of having someone around who understood her plight, how secure it made her feel. Going it alone would be scarier and more difficult. Sticking with Alan was the easy choice, but she was not positive that it was the right one. How could she be happy in her success if her success meant she had to watch Alan sink deeper and deeper? And then what? Would it be worse than what happened to him the last time he got so low?

"I guess we have to do what we must in pursuit of results," she said.

Alan's face relaxed, relief washing over him.

"I'm glad you're finally seeing things my—"

"I'm so sorry, Alan."

Muffy continued to the limo.

"Muffy, please!"

"I really don't want to lose everything all over again," she said over her shoulder, "but I can't look away if it means something bad could happen to you. At this point, I'm afraid it might."

"You're going to ruin everything! And I mean everything!"

"Don't worry about—_hey_!"

Alan had latched onto Muffy, planting his feet. He had not hurt her, but the abrupt stop had been jarring. She turned to see the fingers of Alan's left hand encircling her right wrist, gripping it firmly.

"What do you think you're doing? Let go of me."

It felt so offensive for someone to lay hands on her without her permission, and she could not help but grow indignant, a feeling that quickly melted away as she took in the look on Alan's face. He was not angry with her. Rather, he looked sad, distraught. Those were the same puppy dog eyes he had given her the day he tried to apologize for the library incident. Why? Was it because she was betraying his confidence mere days after swearing it to him outside the Crosswire estate, proving the suspicions he had expressed the night of her party correct after all? He might hate her after this, but an Alan who hated her, an Alan who was no longer her friend was better than an Alan in danger. And if she ended up failing on her wager to her father, she figured that was a small price to pay, too. Still, Alan held on.

"You mean it, don't you?" he said, his voice strained. 'You're ready to give all this up?"

"If it comes to that, yes. I know this feels like a slap in the face to you, but I'm… The last time things got out of hand, you ended up with stitches. What if something worse happens this time? I don't want that, and I don't want to be responsible for it. It's not worth it, not even if it means I'll be grounded until high school."

"Muffy—"

"I'll be fine."

"But I _won't_ be!" said Alan. "Not without _you_… Don't you understand that without me telling you? I…need you."

There was a long silence between them during which Muffy was unable to decide if Alan was being sincere or if something had shorted in his brain.

"That's ridiculous," she said quietly. "I mean… I mean, why in the world would _you_ need someone like _me_?"

Alan hesitated. It looked as if it pained him to say it aloud.

"You are the only friend with whom I can converse freely."

"Oh," she said in a tiny, surprised voice from somewhere deep inside her, then, soberer, "Oh."

He still held onto her, as if he feared she would make a run for it once the tension loosened. He closed his eyes for a moment, summoning his inner strength.

"It's not easy to express myself like this, especially after Lydia, so believe that I'm not feeding you a line when I say that…that your friendship, your presence, has meant more to me than I can adequately express, and you know how verbose I am."

Though his sentiments were touching, Muffy could not see anything that she had done that was of much value. Alan's problems were enormous, and she felt utterly powerless against them. People like Dr. Hartmann-Krause had the skills to make a difference, not her. Yet, Alan had chosen her, Muffy, as some sort of guiding light. Tears welled in her eyes, shame seeping in over the very idea of it.

"I haven't done anything."

"You have."

"What have I done for you? I gave you water? I invited you to a party…which only made things worse. I can't help anybody, Alan, not where it counts. You know that. I can barely help myself."

Alan had not let go of Muffy, but he took a couple of paces toward her, narrowing the gap.

"When I walked out of Dr. Hartmann-Krause's office that day and saw you across the street, I was sure that, especially after what happened at the library, my life as I knew it was over. I knew that I would go to school the next day, and I would be called 'emo' or 'Crazy Alan' or 'that mental kid'. And those who didn't make fun of me would be too put off to ever interact with me again. Over the years, I found ways to help myself in my darkest times, like my shop, for instance. But, with my secret out, there would be nowhere to go. The gossip queen would see to it."

She was really beginning to hate that name.

"You surprised me that day, in the best way imaginable. You've been nothing but kind, kinder than I probably deserve. Moreover, you accepted me, tried to include me. I don't know why you did it, but I'm glad. Your being there made all the difference in the world. When you're around, even though we don't talk about it, I feel as if I _could_. I feel like I have an ally, like I'm less alone."

That was the way she felt having Alan, Alan in particular, as her tutor. She was less alone.

Alan sank to his knees and said, "I am _begging_ you not to leave me behind."

Muffy breathed a huge sigh, exhaling heavily as if to rid herself of the burden, though it remained. Tears rolled down, and she hastily wiped them away and fanned her face.

"I don't know what to do," she said softly, helplessly. "I'm scared."

"Believe me," said Alan, "I'm well acquainted with those feelings. Please, don't cry."

"I can't help it. I don't want you to get hurt, but it feels like you will no matter what I do."

"If it's any consolation, I know how crazy this all sounds. _No one_ knows it more than I do, but I still want to try because I need to know. I'm not fine with not knowing whether it's real, and I can't rest until I have answers. I know you're afraid on my behalf, but will you give me a chance before rushing to extremes? Could I at least bargain with you?"

Muffy sniffled. "What kind of bargain?"

"Let me go through with the séance, and I promise you that, whatever the results, I'll tell Dr. Hartmann-Krause everything. Please, Muffy, give me one more week?"

Alan was sincere in his appeal, Muffy knew, but that did not mean he was well. She imagined that these coincidences would be hard for someone like him to shake. He wanted answers, and he was the type of person who would exhaust all efforts until he got them. He needed to know. If he knew, would he finally be able to put Lydia to rest? Was there a way for him to perform this one last experiment and ensure that he would remain safe? There was only one way to find out.

Muffy tugged on Alan's hand, helping him to his feet. She pointed at him, kept reaching out toward his chest until she buried her fingertip in his sweater.

"Don't make me regret keeping my mouth shut," she said. "What can I do to help?"

"You mean it?"

She nodded. If she was going to condone this, she may as well stick close by Alan and keep an eye on things.

"Um, you can start by helping me secure a setting for the séance. According to Prunella, holding a séance in the place where the 'activity' is taking place could help our chances of making contact, so I'd like to hold it in my room."

"You want me to help you clean your room?"

"Not exactly. There's a problem, and I'm not sure I'll be able to work around it. You see, I think my mom would have a panic attack if she knew occult practices were taking place under her roof. If we could somehow get my parents out of the house for a few hours on Saturday, she would never have to know. How can I achieve that?"

"One of the best ways to get someone to do what you want is to figure out what _they_ want and exploit it," Muffy said. "So, what do they want?"

Alan looked as if he were casting around for ideas.

"I'm not sure, a normal son?"

"Stop talking like that!" Muffy said with a stamp of her foot. "You need to get real. You are Alan freaking Powers. Your parents are damn lucky to have a son like you, and they know it. Can't you think of _anything_ they would like?"

Alan fleetingly appeared to be taken by the complement.

"Well… I know they have been worried and stressed out lately, thanks to me." He threw his hands up in surrender at the warning look she gave him. "All right, I'll stop. But honestly…maybe they would appreciate a moment to unwind and enjoy themselves. A break. But I don't see how—"

"Stop! That…I can work with."

"Yeah?" he said hopefully.

"Give me a second… Ohmigosh! Got it! This is perfect."

"What? You've got something already?"

"It's a gift. Literally. Get in the limo. I'll have Bailey pack up your bike, and I'll tell you on the way home. We have a plan to devise."

_To be continued…_


	16. Two Different People

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING for this chapter, which contains discussion of a kidnapping. Reader discretion is advised.

Prunella paced in the loft, vaguely aware of the aching in her cheeks. Brain had been gone for a couple of minutes now, but she could not stop smiling. All her time spent honing her craft, attempting to tap into her abilities, had paid off, as she had known it would. Her crystal sat on its pedestal atop the nightstand, where it had been moved to make room for Marina and the snacks. Prunella sidestepped Marina's cane which was propped against the edge of the table, and wandered over to the ball as if drawn to it. She plucked it in a fluid motion, held it up to what was left of the setting sunlight drifting through the window, and gazed into it. Her reflection contorted, her head bending inward, curling around to form a crook. While perhaps not the most attractive image, it could not kill her buoyancy. To think she had seen all that in this small sphere just two years ago, and she had not even realized it. That drowsy day in the Tent of Portent had turned into the watershed of her career, the moment she had crossed over the threshold, from dreamer to doer. And now it was time to get to work, her first gig as a real, live spiritual consultant.

"Saturday will be here before we know it, Marina," she gushed. "I don't have much time to prepare. I'll need incense and candles and herbs—oh, I'm so nervous I can hardly think straight. I should make a list!"

This was her debut; she had to get this right. She placed the crystal back on its pedestal and darted to the foot of her bed where her schoolbag sat, unzipped. She sat on her bed with the pen and notebook she had withdrawn and began to scribble feverishly, muttering to herself as she wrote.

"Should I bring my onyx? Couldn't hurt…better add it just in case… And we'll need an offering. I'm thinking strawberries and Darjeeling would be perfect. Yes, they are perfect… There, I think that's it."

Prunella began doodling a crescent moon and stars at the top of the list.

"Isn't this exciting, Marina?" she said as she absently filled in some of the lines. "What time should I pick you up? How does five-thirty-ish sound?"

"I won't be going to the séance," Marina said, her tone even.

Prunella's head snapped up. Spine rigid, Marina faced straight ahead in her chair.

"Oh. Is it gym practice or something?"

It was something, all right. Marina wore a look of concern, and her brow creased even harder as she drew a slow breath. Prunella was almost afraid to ask.

"You've been quiet all evening. Marina?"

"You don't get it, do you? The severity of what you've done?"

With ease, Marina had diminished Prunella's joy. It was a tiny pinprick, but the slow leak could be felt all the same. She had to plug it. So, this was the part where Marina made her feel guilty about the séance and scaring Brain? She would not let her rain on her parade.

"I know, I know…but before you get upset, just remember that what started out as a prank turned into something much, much more. Something better. I'd appreciate it if you could just be happy for me. This is kind of a big deal."

"A prank?" Marina said, nearly choking on the last word as if she found it absurd. "No, no…putting shaving cream into a sleeping person's hand and then tickling his nose is a prank. This is just…beyond callous."

"I don't get why—"

"I know, Prunella. That's what's so disturbing. I'm not even sure I know where to start with this. You tried to get to Alan by using his emotional distress and his grandmother's death. Why? Just because he irritated you? Then Muffy comes to you with new information, that Alan is tormented by his friend's death and the guilt of ruining her chess set. Instead of doing what Muffy said and easing his mind, you switched gears. And to top it all off, you told Muffy you wished you had known about Lydia all along so you could have exploited _her_ death instead. And you don't find any of that the least bit horrible?"

Why did she have to put it that way?

"I won't deny that maybe I was a bit…misguided in the beginning," Prunella said, "but now I'm trying to help Brain. You don't think I mean well?"

"I think you want to think that, but, really, you're just making this all about you."

"Well, I was the one who predicted all that stuff. Lydia did use me as a conduit. Why can't I be happy for once after dealing with naysayers all these years? And Brain, the naysayer to end all naysayers, ate crow and came to me for help. What does that tell you?"

"That you're proving my point for me. You want to be vindicated so badly. You're desperate for it, and I'm afraid it'll cloud your judgement. You should've stood your ground today and told him the truth, that it was a hoax and a bit of lucky guessing and nothing more. Muffy was the one who was trying to help Alan. He needed to let go of this silly notion so he could move on, but now it's like you're feeding off each other. I've never witnessed anything like this. It's dangerous. I'm afraid it's going to go to your head, and then you'll end up like Cynthia Blackwood and all the other fake mediums who give false hope to heartbroken people."

"What does this have to do with Cynthia Blackwood?"

Prunella knew of Cynthia Blackwood and had even admired her for her abilities. Cynthia was a psychic who had reached celebrity status, having appeared on numerous television programs. She even publicly offered her assistance on several unsolved mysteries and cold cases via her blog. Her blog posts remained for all to read, though Cynthia had passed on unexpectedly three or so years ago. Prunella had been saddened by the news.

"Roslyn Dietrich comes to mind," said Marina. "She was our age when she went missing without a trace near Dayton fourteen years ago. Her parents reached out to Cynthia. They hired her because they had nowhere else to turn. Cynthia happened to be filming a piece with a nightly news program at the time, and they followed her to Ohio as she met with Mr. and Mrs. Dietrich, walked around Roslyn's hangouts, sat in her bed room, touched her personal items…"

Marina looked disgusted.

"Cynthia told them that Roslyn was dead, that she had been murdered by an undiscovered serial killer and her body was buried in the woods somewhere in Indiana. Conveniently, she couldn't pinpoint the location. Conveniently, she couldn't get a clear image of the killer's facial features."

Prunella recalled something similar to that tale from a blog post, though Cynthia had emphasized how draining the ordeal had been, just to garner what little information she had.

"That's sad," she said. "That's awful, but at least she was able to give Roslyn's parents a little closure."

"She told them a huge lie. That's what she did. Her parents broke down when they heard Roslyn was dead, but they accepted it as truth. They held a funeral for her, mourned—all her family and friends. But Roslyn was never murdered. She had been abducted. And get this—she was held captive six miles from her home. For _fourteen_ years. Her captors, a husband and wife, saw the news piece Cynthia filmed and laughed in Roslyn's face. Roslyn managed to escape on her own a few months back and contacted the police. She had to rely on herself because no psychic could help her. Instead Cynthia Blackwood collected her money and continued to swindle people until the day she died, while Roslyn and her parents are in therapy."

Prunella had not been aware of this development in the case. What must it have been like for Roslyn's parents, to be told that kind of lie, a lie they paid for, only to find out their daughter was alive and had been tortured for years and left with scars? And poor Roslyn… Prunella would never be able to think of Cynthia Blackwood the same way again.

"I… I would _never_ do something like that," Prunella said, growing angry as Marina's implication sank in.

"You do understand that Alan was in love with that girl, right, and he still hasn't gotten over her death?"

Prunella had understood that Lydia had been important to Brain, but hearing Marina use the phrase "in love with" struck her. Sure, she had teased Muffy about having a secret crush on him, but until now, the thought of him having intense romantic feelings for someone really had been a strange concept to fully grasp. Now that she did, it made him seem average, pitiful. Like anyone else. Like any of Cynthia Blackwood's victims.

"Yes," she said, "but I'm going to get this right. I won't lie to him because I won't have to."

"Not even if push comes to shove?"

Marina honestly thought she would lie to save face if they tried to contact Lydia and came up empty handed. Maybe she would have years ago, but this was a new era. If Marina refused to accept it, that was her problem.

"It doesn't matter how much you insult me," Prunella said, "I'm going through with the séance."

"You know what?" Marina said, exasperated. "Have at it. I obviously can't get through to you. Do what you want, but don't expect me to be a part of it."

"Well… Well… Fine, then. It's probably a good thing you won't be there. We wouldn't want your negative energy driving Lydia's spirit away."

"Ridiculous…" said Marina under her breath as she felt around the tabletop for her phone. She grabbed it and placed a finger on the bottom left of the screen.

"_Phone…"_ said a robotic voice, and Marina double-tapped the icon, waiting a moment before running her finger down her contacts list.

"_Mom…"_ the voice said, and Marina double-tapped again and brought the device up.

"Yep, I'm all done," Marina said in a brighter voice once her mother picked up. "I'll be waiting outside… Thanks."

Marina wordlessly gathered her things and stood. Prunella copied the action, rising from her bed as she tossed her pen and notebook aside.

"This is going to work, Marina," she said.

Marina looked as if she were holding back something but ultimately was unable to help herself. She shouldered her bag and reached for her cane as she said, "I hope so. Believe it or not, I don't want you to fail. I don't want anyone to get hurt, and that includes you… And me."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I _care_ about you," she said, voice straining, cracking. "A lot. But it's almost like you're two different people. There's a side of you that's generous and caring, and I know you'd do anything for me. But then there's this nasty, selfish side to you that I find revolting. Sometimes I worry about which side you'll wind up on. Sometimes I'm not sure I want to stick around and find out. Goodbye, Prunella. I hope you'll do the right thing."

Marina left, feeling her way down the staircase. Prunella wanted to stop her, but she could not force herself to utter an apology. She could not even call out her promise that Marina need not worry because she would not lie to Brain if push came to shove. That promise stuck in her throat as well. The distance between them grew greater as Marina got closer and closer to the bottom of the stairs. Prunella turned her back, not wanting to see her friend disappear behind the door, not knowing when or if she would ever return. She could not help but wince at the sound of it shutting in the distance, resonating louder than perhaps it should have.

_To be continued… _


	17. Give and Take

_2004_

Chip was not thinking about his lack of impulse control as he pulled into the parking lot of Sloth's Tap House early on a balmy Florida afternoon. A popular joint among the Tallahassee college crowd, Sloth's also happened to be where his girlfriend—soon to be ex—worked.

In hindsight, he really had been stupid to get involved with someone like Lexie. Vivacious and blonde, she was an outgoing rabbit girl, gorgeous and witty. The total package. A teenage boy's dream, and then some. But she was also flirty, handsy, and brazen. She practically hung from her guy friends' shoulders whenever she encountered one of them, always leaning in during conversations and flipping her hair. Why had he not seen it sooner?

_You knew. Jordan was right. You knew what she was like, but you ignored it._

If Lexie's indiscretion had not been bad enough, she often accused Chip of flirting with his girl friends, when he had done nothing of the sort. He realized now that she had been projecting her guilt onto him, as dishonest people often did. Still, he wished Jordan or any of his brothers had saved him some embarrassment. He had not even found out from Jordan. Dusty had told him.

Whenever he needed an escape from Omega Psi Phi, Chip would spend a few hours at the Arcade Lounge, a local karaoke bar. No one from his fraternity hung out there, and he liked to chill out, drink cheap beer and eat lemon pepper drumettes while watching sloshed patrons try to sing Savage Garden songs. He often ran into students from Taltech who weren't in his normal social circle but were good for interesting conversations. That's how he had become friends with Dusty, who was a pit member in the school's marching band.

"So, you and Lexie split again?" Dusty had said over his burger last night.

"Uh, no. Who said that?"

"Oh. I just figured…"

"What, Dusty?"

"Damn. Now I wish… I'm sorry, man."

"Who said it?"

"Look, I was at Sloth's last night with some friends. As we were going in, I saw Lexie outside, on break, I guess, and…she wasn't alone, and they were up close and personal. I won't elaborate, I mean, unless you want me to."

There was a long pause during which Chip said nothing, his anger growing. He could no longer pay attention to the man on stage, tipsily warbling the lyrics to "Crash and Burn".

"Anyway," Dusty continued, "he followed her back in and sat at the bar all night, or at least until we left."

"Who?"

"I dunno. Dark hair. Beard. Looked older than her by a couple of years. Never seen him 'round Taltech, so… But some guys from your frat were there. A big dude—they called him 'Jordan'. He was with a couple of others. One of them was wearing an Omega Psi Phi cap, so that's how I knew. They sat in Lexie's section near the bar. They didn't tell you?"

Chip had left Dusty behind at the Arcade Lounge and headed straight to O. P. P., where he found Jordan in the massive kitchen, using the restaurant-grade range to grill two ham and cheese sandwiches.

"What the hell, Jordy?" Chip said loud enough to echo off the high ceiling, causing Jordan to jump and nearly miss the plate as he tipped his sandwiches out of the pan. "Lexie had her tongue down some assclown's throat at Sloth's the other night, and you didn't tell me?"

Jordan brushed Chip off with ease.

"Maybe you would've seen it for yourself if you had just come with us instead of staying in all the time. See what you miss out on by acting like a seventy-five-year-old man?"

"So that's why, payback because I didn't want to hang out? We're supposed to be brothers."

"No, dude. I didn't tell 'cause it really shouldn't be all that shocking to you. You knew she was the village bike when you got with her. Did you expect that to change? What—did you think yours was so special she'd stay loyal to it?"

He kind of had thought that, if he was being honest, but he would not admit it to Jordan.

"So, you're saying she's done this the whole time we—every time we've been together?"

Jordan snorted as he chewed. "If you want my advice, just hit it and chill. Enjoy the ride and try not to think too hard about all that other stuff. You'll just drive yourself crazy if you do."

"This, coming from a psych major," Chip said, shaking his head.

"Nmm-mmm. Communications. Lone wolf can't even remember his brothers' majors… You could break up with Lexie, you know, find a girl more your speed. There're plenty down at the senior center, dying for a young buck like you to help them with their cross-stitch patterns."

That's why he was at Sloth's right now, not lending a second thought to the social entrepreneurship lecture he was missing. The night before, he wanted to call Lexie right away and call it off for good. Instead, he had wrestled with the idea of appealing to her and trying to make it work, which had only taken his mind to a darker place. He remembered the times Lexie had broken up with him, claiming she found him emotionally unavailable or asserting her doubts regarding his trustworthiness. That was rich. He had been the one to fight for less parties and more one-on-one dates so they could connect on a deeper level. He was the one who sat back and tried to remain calm as she all but sat in other guys' laps in front of him. He always begged her to take him back, believing he was the problem. He had sworn to change, promised to be better if he could just keep her, and there he was, falling into the same trap. He could not keep Lexie because she was never his from the jump. Chip had pocketed his phone, sat at one of the tables in the courtyard of Omega Psi Phi all night, drinking and seething.

Chip closed the door to his shiny blue Porsche and steeled himself. Maybe this was not appropriate, confronting her here, but neither was all the pain and humiliation she had put him through. It was time to return the favor. He locked the Porsche and headed toward the entrance, and that's when he saw him crossing the parking lot from the opposite end. Chip stood still. Could this be Lexie's side piece? He was a brown monkey, early-twenties with a medium build. Black hair and neatly-trimmed beard. He donned sunglasses and a rusty-brown leather bomber. It was nearly eighty degrees outside. Who wore a leather jacket in eighty-degree weather?

_Cheating A-holes, that's who._

The man took off his glasses as he pulled open the front door and entered Sloth's. Chip followed him, fist clenched. A hostess he had never seen, possibly because he had never been in Sloth's this early, greeted him at the door, but Chip intercepted her before she could do her spiel.

"You're good," he said as casually as he could maintain. "I'm meeting someone here. I'll find him myself, don't worry."

He gave a wink and breezed past her, winding his way through the crowd which was sparse before the typical evening rush. Lexie would have begun her shift minutes ago. He stayed close to a partition wall that was near his shoulders in height, in case he needed to duck. He wanted to assess Lexie's section, to see if assclown had wound up there. He had. His rusty bomber was easy to spot as he sat at the bar, reaching for the pint he had just been served, while Lexie leaned in to whisper in his ear. Bomber guy watched Lexie as she sauntered away to the kitchen with his order. She was in for the surprise of her life.

Chip straightened up and walked to the bar, taking a stool right next to bomber guy. He gestured for the bartender to give him a minute, and picked up a menu. Bomber guy looked at Chip, giving him a side-eye for choosing to sit so closely when there were several stools available. The man's shoulders hitched, and he stared straight ahead, sipping his beer.

"I can't decide what to drink until I know what I'll be eating," Chip said to bomber guy as he held the menu closer, pretending to consider Sloth's offerings. "Not sure if I should go with street tacos or brisket nachos. What about you, beardo? What are you having?"

Bomber guy turned to look at Chip. "Hey, why don't you stop being a creep and move down. Who the hell are you, man?"

"I'm Lexie's boyfriend," Chip said calmly. "Soon to be ex. Soon to be for good. You don't look surprised to hear about me. Did she tell you she was seeing someone? Did you guys laugh?"

"You're here to kick my ass or something?" said bomber guy.

"I don't care about you enough to make the effort. Besides, I'm not a fighter. But public humiliation…that's how you really hurt someone."

"Chip?"

Lexie had returned, a look of trepidation plastered to her face as she clutched her ticket book holder to her chest. Chip smiled at her.

"'Sup, Lex?" he said as loudly and clearly as he could without shouting.

"What are you doing here? I thought you had class," was all she managed.

"Weird. I used to think the same thing about you, but now I realize you're just a manipulative, cheating skank."

Lexie gave a quick, horrified glance around her section as if to make sure no one had heard that. Some had, and they were beginning to stare.

"Stop it, Chip!" she hissed. "I'm trying to work, and you're causing a scene!"

"That's part of the plan, baby," he said, coming down from his stool. "I was just telling your little boink buddy here about how I'm going to break up with you. I'm almost done."

Lexie approached him, got in his face. She acted as if she were angry with him, but her eyes were pleading with him to stop.

"I can't believe you have the balls to be this mad at me," she said in a low voice. "Don't act like you never slept around."

"You're right. I did. When I wasn't in a _relationship_. But when we were on, we were _on_. There was never anyone else because, like a dumbass, I believed you were worth it. You know what's sick? Part of me still thinks I'll be missing out on something if I cut you loose. This is more than cheating—you messed with my mind, Lex. And I think…I think you got off on it."

That last part had not been rehearsed, and it hit Chip hard. Lexie did not try to defend herself. She would rather double down.

"You're never there for me, Chip. I had to find someone who—"

"_Wow_… I get it now. I really do get it. This is your thing. Damn…" He looked over to bomber guy and said, "She's all yours, dude, but not really. I hope you know what you're getting into, both figuratively and literally."

Chip left Lexie and bomber guy at the bar, stopping in the middle of Lexie's section on his way out to proclaim loudly, "And that goes for the rest of you! If anyone else in here has slept with Lexie Thompson, do yourself a favor and hit the VD clinic on the way home! Peace!"

It would be the last time he ever spoke to Lexie. As well, he would never set foot inside Sloth's again.

* * *

_Present day_

After Muffy had cancelled on him Monday afternoon, Chip was at a loss, alone and bored in his apartment, unaware he was about to get sucked into caring about his father. The evening started out innocent enough. He cancelled the Lucien's reservation over the phone and had a Stromboli delivered from a nearby pizza joint. There was no beer in his fridge, so he opted for Perrier, his newfound addiction for which he blamed his little sister, though he preferred orange to Muffy's grapefruit. No beer meant he could end the night early with a scotch later on and hopefully get in some extra sleep.

After dinner, Chip washed off some of his cologne. He had been too heavy handed with it, and it reminded him of his date with Catherine and how it had melded with her perfume at the end of the night, commingling into a new, unique fragrance. He didn't need further reminder of how much he missed her.

He tried to distract himself as much as he could by setting up trick shots on his putting green while _The Sixth Sense_, part of a basic cable channel's annual Halloween Horror Fest going on for the month of October, played as background noise. Still, he thought about her, the person who made him feel safest, the one girlfriend he could trust, and how it was as if the universe were mocking him by constantly keeping them apart.

_Think I'll have that scotch now…_

Chip left the green to pour one for himself as the movie went to commercials. First up was one for Certified Pre-Owned of Elwood, a somber ad that stressed the dealership's devotion to the community in addition to the importance of its thorough vehicle inspections. He was only half listening as he tipped the bottle of Glenfiddich 15 Year over a glass, until the parting lines made him take notice.

"_Safety. Service. We never compromise. Located at Fifth and Main in Elwood City."_

"Huh?"

Chip looked up with a jerk, sloshing some of the scotch onto the granite pass thru top as he did. The commercial was already over, and another for body wash had begun.

Fifth and Main was the location of Crosswire Motors. What happened? Why was Certified Pre-Owned of Elwood there instead? Had the big guy sold the business? Had Crosswire Motors gone out of business? Chip decided he did not care, then sat down on the sofa with his scotch and his laptop anyway. He turned off the TV and set to work, hating himself for giving into his curiosity. Things started off with a simple test. Chip typed "crosswiremotorsdotcom" into the browser. He was promptly redirected to the website for Certified Pre-Owned of Elwood. The sleek main page flashed several images that looked like stock photos of smiling car salesmen helping smiling customers on a lot, the only difference being Chip recognized some of the salesmen as the big guy's long-standing employees. Between the photos flashed the phrases "Safety" and "Service" and, finally, "We never compromise". The slideshow ended, settling on an exterior photo of the business itself, which stood exactly where Crosswire Motors had, only it had undergone an extensive remodel, appearing shinier, more modern. There were many large windows, and the business's name was emblazoned across the building's façade in gleaming red lettering.

"Established two thousand and four?" Chip mumbled. "Okay, what's going on?"

There was a drop-down menu for dealer info, and he glanced over it. Usual suspects like business hours, reviews and testimonials, and contact info were all available, but he was quick to click on the one he really wanted to see: "Meet Our Staff".

Chip was greeted by a picture of the big guy, which had been expected yet somehow more unpleasant than anticipated. It was a family picnic portrait, obviously staged. Three of the four Crosswires gathered together at an outdoor table, dressed in their finest casual summer outfits. Perfectly-plated barbecued ribs and corn on the cob sat before each of them. His parents held hands as they smiled at the camera, while Muffy draped an arm across her father's shoulder, giving him a hug.

At the top of the page was one of the most sickening things he had ever read:

**MORE THAN STAFF, WE'RE FAMILY**

Chip distinctly remembered being told that staff were tools when the big guy took him on a tour of Crosswire Motors at the age of eight. It had seemed cold even then, before he had seen his father for what he was. Unable to stomach the picture for one more second, he backed out of the page.

He found it hard to believe the big guy had altered his point of view on the matter. This whole act about valuing safety and family was just that, an act. But why turn this into his angle? Why change everything about his business? He was now Googling the big guy in spite of himself. A link to Certified Pre-Owned of Elwood was the first in line, followed by several others, all about his father, most pertaining to various philanthropic efforts he had either spearheaded or otherwise involved himself with in some capacity. One article in particular stood out to him: "Ed Crosswire on How He Balances Family, Business, and Community".

Chip's phone rang before he could have an internal debate over clicking the article. He was pleased to see that it was Catherine, and he forgot all about his online rabbit hole.

"How was dinner?" he said to her, checking his watch. It was after nine-thirty. He really had fallen in deep.

"Fine," said Catherine, sounding tired. "I met Traci, the new roommate. Kind of quirky, but she seems nice. Great bangs. I got the number for her salon."

"That's cool…"

"Listen," her tone went from zero to serious business in a heartbeat. "We really need to talk."

"Uh, all right," he said cautiously. "You first?"

Had she finally come to her senses? Was today the day she finally called it off?

"I just have to be honest, Chip… It really bothers me that you think I'd cheat on you."

Chip wanted to jump to his defense, assert that he had not thought that, but he could not lie to Catherine. He had thought that. There was nothing to do except be honest himself.

"I get that, Cat. It bothers me, too, because I know what you're like. You wouldn't. But I couldn't help myself. Lexie screwed me up, and I haven't had a decent relationship since. I undermine myself, always, because I don't want to stick around long enough to figure out if the next girlfriend is lying to me. I don't want it to be that way with you. I know it doesn't have to be because you're the most honest person I've ever met. I'm sorry I forgot that for even a second. Please, don't break up with me."

"I don't want to break up with you. I want to try to make this work. That's why we need to talk. I know it seems like nothing is falling into place, whether it's because of your schedule or mine or whatever, but I don't want to give up. We have obstacles, and we need to figure out how to navigate them. Separation and phone tag and suspicions are only going to hurt us."

"Yeah…they will."

"You said you'd wait as long as it takes. Did you mean that?"

"Yes, Cat. You're not just the next girlfriend, you're worth sticking around. I just lost myself that night. Again, I'm sorry."

"Why don't you come over," she said.

Chip paused in the middle of reaching for his scotch, wanting the drink now more than ever. Was Catherine suggesting what he thought she was?

"You're serious? And walk on forbidden ground?"

"It's taken some time to adjust to the idea," she said slowly, "but this _is_ my home now. If I want to have someone…a man over, I should feel free. There's no rule against it. Also…it's not lost on me that you've done a lot for me since you got here, made sacrifices."

"I haven't kept score."

"I know you haven't, and that's beside the point. A relationship needs give and take on both sides in order for it to work. I've been doing all the taking. It's time I gave a little. And…I miss you. I really do."

Chip swallowed. As many times as he had told Catherine he missed her, she had never said it to him. He had no clue what had held her back all this time, but hearing her say it now made his heart leap.

"I'd rather talk to you face to face than over the phone. If the conversation goes well, maybe we can do more than just talk."

"I'll get my coat," he said without another moment's hesitation.

Chip was out of the apartment in less than a minute, leaving his research material behind on the coffee table. The laptop was still open to the page of search engine results. The Glenfiddich remained undrunk.

_To be continued…_


	18. Opereation: Date Night

Alan and Muffy sat across from each other at the kitchen table of the Powers residence on Tuesday afternoon. Since tutoring sessions typically took place in the library of the Crosswire estate, the set-up today was a unique environment in which they had to work. While it was a perfectly suitable setting, the kitchen was less spacious, and Bailey was not available to wait on them hand and foot throughout the afternoon. They had not changed scenery on a whim, however; this was a carefully calculated move on their part. They had a plan, one that was chiefly Muffy's, informed by Alan's knowledge of his parents. Muffy had cheerily dubbed the plan "Operation: Date Night" before Alan had departed the limo yesterday evening. Alan had a part to play in Operation: Date Night's execution, too, but he also had to remain cool and trust in Muffy that everything would pan out accordingly.

Alan's father was surprised to see them here today and huffed, "Oh! Hello, Muffy! Don't see you around here all that often," as he wobbled over to the counter, carrying as many grocery bags as he could manage in both hands.

Alan tried to analyze his comment for signs of suspicion but found none. So far, so good, but they were only fifteen seconds in. Muffy was quick to feed his father a line about how the floors of the mansion were being stripped and waxed this week.

"It stinks," she said. "I'm not kidding. It smells vomitrocious. I hope you don't mind us working here, Mr. Powers."

"Not at all, as long as Alan takes it easy on you," he said kindly, ambling over to Alan's chair, clasping a hand over his right shoulder in a high-spirited manner. "This kid corrects the grammar in my text messages, so I feel your pain."

Muffy flashed Alan's father a brilliant smile.

"If he took it easy on me, I wouldn't be where I am today."

"Why don't we stop for a second?" said Alan. "You can take a break, and I'll help Dad with the groceries."

His father waved a hand as he hurried back to the counter.

"I've got this. You two keep doing your thing."

"How about a snack, then?" Alan said to Muffy. "Is there something you'd like in particular?"

"I don't care…" Muffy said nonchalantly. "Got any popcorn?"

"I'll have it ready in a jiffy," Alan said, trying to sound pleasant but casual.

The setup was close to commencing. This was the prelude.

"Hey, son, why don't you make that green tea beverage you created? I bought ingredients to make more of it. Just a suggestion."

"Um, sure, I can do that… Would you like one, too?"

"Would you mind?" his father said, looking as if he did not want to admit how much he wanted one.

"You got it. Coming right up."

Alan grabbed the air popper from a cabinet and set it to make popcorn. From the grocery bags he took cans of coconut milk and mango nectar. He measured the ingredients in the blender's jar, added ice, chilled green tea, honey, and then allowed the mixture to spin for several seconds. Once finished, he portioned the drink among three glasses. He served Muffy first, then his father. Muffy's expression lit up upon her first sip. She took another one, drinking deeper. His father had already downed a third of his glass, stopping a moment to savor it before putting away the groceries.

"No matter how many times I try to make it, it just doesn't taste as good. Guess I don't have your magic touch."

"That's because you stir it up in a glass, Dad. Each ingredient possesses a different density. Plus, the coconut milk is fatty. You need to blend everything together, create an emulsion so the flavors become one and the ingredients won't separate. That's when the magic happens…well, science."

His father stopped in the middle of sorting the bulk dry goods. He shook his head, sporting an impressed smirk.

"One of these days I'm going to teach you something instead of the other way around," he said.

"He doesn't know how to drive yet," Muffy offered. "You could teach him that."

"True," his father laughed.

Alan fetched the salt shaker and seasoned the popcorn, catching Muffy out of the corner of his eye. She slumped in her seat, arms crossed on top of the table. As he placed the bowl down between her and himself, she sighed heavily.

_Let Operation: Date Night commence_, Alan thought.

"Is something the matter, Muffy?" he said.

"Oh, it's nothing," she said glumly. "Kind of silly, really."

"What is it?"

"Well… My brother wanted to surprise his girlfriend with a romantic night out at Erie Botanical Gardens. The Splendor of Light Festival is going on, and he bought tickets for Saturday night… But he didn't know Ca— that his girlfriend would be out of town this weekend. Now his plans are ruined, and he can't refund the tickets."

"Oh," Alan said, trying to sound as if Muffy had not given him a rundown of her spiel yesterday evening. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"Yeah. Chip gave the tickets to me and told me to find someone who could use them, but so far, I've had no takers."

"What about your parents?" said Alan. "Can't they go?"

"No. They have a costume party to attend. It's a charity event. My parents and our next-door neighbor helped organize it, so they kind of have to be there. It's such a shame these tickets are going to go to waste."

Muffy cupped her chin in her hand as she stared down at the tabletop, circling her fingertip around the lip of her glass. She put effort into her pensive stare, waiting the few seconds she promised to wait before jumping into the next phase of the operation. First was the set up, and now it was time for the sell.

"Ohmigosh! Mr. Powers? Why don't you take them?"

His father turned around in surprise.

"Me? Oh, I don't think I could do that, Muffy. What would I do with them?"

"Treat yourself, of course! It'll be wonderful—you and Mrs. Powers, together on an enchanting romantic evening in one of the most breathtakingly beautiful settings in the state. Have you ever _seen_ the Splendor of Light Festival? You're in for something really special. "

Muffy hopped out of her seat and pretended to rummage around inside her handbag for her Infinity, though she knew exactly where it was. Once it was in her hand, she spent a couple of seconds pulling up the Splendor of Light feature on the Gardens' website, though she had the page saved and ready to go in a heartbeat. Muffy hurried over to his father and enthusiastically began showing him pictures of all the festival had to offer, allowing him to gaze upon the wonders that awaited his parents should his father decide to take the tickets.

"You'll also gain all-inclusive access to a party at The Crest. That's the rooftop restaurant. _Très chic_, especially when bathed in the evening lighting. I'll show you!"

There were many more pictures. To Alan's astonishment, his father had not stopped Muffy. He figured he would have by now, had he not been at least a little interested. Alan felt as if he could hold his breath, waiting for the hammer to fall.

"We're talking dinner, free champagne, exquisite, delectable desserts, and an extraordinary view. Even your parking fee is taken care of. And if that wasn't enough, the Gardens are located a quarter mile from the boardwalk, if you're looking to end your evening with an intimate nighttime stroll. There's nothing like watching the lights of the city dance across the reflective pool of the rippling bay. Imagine, the lapping of the water, ship horns far off in the distance. You have to take them, Mr. Powers. I insist!"

His father looked genuinely torn.

"That all sounds very tempting, Muffy, really wonderful, in fact, but I don't think it'll be possible."

"Oh? Why not?" she asked with a wide-eyed innocence.

"Well, Mrs. Powers won't be able to close the shop until well into the evening, and I highly doubt we'll be able to make it to the party in time after that, especially once you factor in travel time."

Now was Alan's time to chime in.

"You know, Dad, if you really want to go, I'd be happy to close up for Mom on Saturday."

His father looked uncertain, though is eyes darted back to Muffy's phone screen.

"You're mom probably won't go for that," he said.

"I don't have to work the entire shift, just the last couple of hours. I can close, clean up, prepare the deposit, and balance the till. That should give Mom plenty of time to change for the party so you can make it to Erie. Let me help. I don't mind."

"And Bailey can pick Alan up when he's done. He can hang out at my house for the evening, if you two want to take your time. We'll get some friends together and have a movie night! Just text when you're on your way home, and Bailey will drop him off. No sweat."

"I…uh…I don't know, Alan."

"I think you guys deserve a night out, just yourselves," Muffy said, making her way toward the fridge. "Tell you what—you discuss it with Mrs. Powers, and in the meantime, I'll leave these here."

Muffy pinned the tickets to the fridge with a magnet.

"It really would be such a shame for them to go to waste…"

Muffy took her seat and grabbed a handful of popcorn.

"All right," she said, giving Alan a wink once his father could no longer see her face. "Let's get back to work!"

* * *

"ONE—TWO—THREE—FOUR—Whoa! WHOA!" Binky yelled. "Just stop! What are you doing?"

It was Tuesday afternoon in the MCM auditorium. If Buster was being honest, rehearsal could be going better, but he was having fun watching Binky lose himself while trying to teach everyone the "Shipoopi" choreography.

"If you guys knew how much you look like dogs at fire hydrants when you kick…"

Binky demonstrated by bending forward and lifting one leg straight out to the side. It was overdone, but he was trying to get his point across. It looked comical, and Buster tried not to laugh.

"…you'd stop doing it."

"Give us a break, man," Alex piped up. "Not all of us are classically trained dancers. You can't expect us to have the same skill level as George."

There was a murmur of agreement among the students on stage. Binky gave an irritated wince. He looked offended, as if he had expected Alex to say "as you" in stead of "as George". Before he could retort, Jenna chimed in.

"Yeah, can't we do a million box steps and call it a day like every other middle school theatre production?"

"What did you say to me?" Binky said, turning to Jenna. "We are the Not Ready for High School Players of MCM. We do _not_ do box steps."

"You could at least make things a little simpler. Or slow things down."

Binky ignored her.

"Remember," he said, addressing the group, "you're making a line with your spine. Again, a _line_ with your _spine_. Your chest should be up, lifted proudly so the audience can see your face. To keep your butt from sticking out like and air conditioner, your hips should be tucked _under_…"

For emphasis, he pushed against Buster's backside with his foot as if pressing a brake pedal. Buster instinctively tucked his hips under to get away from the sudden contact.

"…like _this_!"

"Hey!" said Buster in mock-offense. "Nobody touches this booty without buying me dinner first…unless it's Francine."

Buster had not been able to help himself. He felt incredibly happy today. He had successfully lightened the mood in the auditorium. Everyone around him snickered at his joke, and, of course, he had gotten a rise out of Francine.

"I'm going to uppercut you into New Jersey," Francine said to Buster with a sweet smile from across the stage, though he could see the ferocity in her eyes. "Just wait."

More laughter ensued, laced with underlying nervousness this time. Not everyone, it seemed, was used to his and Francine's playfully antagonistic banter.

"How about we take a break, everyone?" called Coach Sorrell before things could escalate. "And in the meantime, let's all think about how we can get our points across without threatening or manhandling each other."

The crowd on stage dispersed. Most headed for the small table set up in one of the aisles to get water or one of the chocolate chip cookies Coach Sorrell had brought.

"I think it's coming along nicely," Fern said as she and Buster walked away from the table. "Binky is just a stickler."

"Yeah. Can you imagine him as a choreographer when he's actually motivated by a paycheck?"

"You're right—he is doing this just for fun, isn't he?" She shuddered. "Would you like to come over Saturday and rehearse lines? There's a hefty dialogue exchange between Harold and Marian, so I think it's crucial we get this down."

"I…can't. Sorry."

He was not all that sorry, but he did not want to let Fern down, which he had already done, judging by the look on her face.

"I've got some stuff going on with Dad. But…if you want, I could hang a couple of hours Sunday and practice."

At this, Fern perked up.

"That works."

Buster remembered another reason why he would not be available Saturday.

"I'll be back in a sec," he said. "I need to talk to Ladonna."

He downed his cookie and hurried off to find Ladonna, sitting on the edge of the stage, talking to Arthur, Alex, and Maria, who all stood at audience level. She was in the middle of one of her stories, and they were enamored by it.

"So, like I was sayin', when he finally took his boot off and turned it upside down, two of his toes fell out. Cross my heart!"

Buster bounded up the steps leading to the stage. He crouched beside Ladonna and tapped her on the shoulder.

"Can I interrupt for a minute?"

Ladonna looked at him and nodded, smiling widely.

"To be continued, guys…" Buster told the gang.

Ladonna stood and followed him to just off stage right.

"I'll keep it short and sweet 'cause I'm sure they're dying to find out what happened to that guy's foot," Buster said. "I'm going to the Ingram Flight School Saturday to check out Dad's work. Do you want to come with?"

Ladonna's mouthed fell open, and she gasped loudly.

"And see the planes? Aw, cool… What time? I don't have any babysittin' lined up, and I'd love to go, but I have a JROTC event Saturday morning. We're working on a campaign to encourage the community to send Christmas cards to soldiers stationed overseas."

"Wow, really? That's super nice."

"It's important, that's for sure. A lot of men and women out there servin' don't have family they stay in touch with, so they get very few letters from home. Some don't get any at all. Hopefully we'll be able to brighten their holiday a little."

"Cool. Well, Dad's picking me up at the condo at three-thirty. Is that okay?"

"Fine and dandy. I'll be there with bells on!"

Buster smiled. If Ladonna was this stoked about getting to see a plane or two, he could not wait to see her reaction when he gave her the real gift.

* * *

George had been using his break to perfect one of the props for the play. In addition to playing Marcellus, a character with a memorable number in the production, he had also joined the crew to work on backdrops and props. The prop he was working on now was integral to another iconic number, "The Wells Fargo Wagon". He had volunteered to construct the wagon himself since it was his idea to have a physical wagon rather than to pretend one was just out of sight by having the actors point toward an offstage area. It was one of the biggest and most complex projects on which he had ever worked alone.

He understood where Binky was coming from. Choreographer was his job, a job that allowed him to use the craft he had spent years honing. The actors were an extension of that craft. It made sense that Binky wanted them to be the best they could be, even if he could be overzealous and downright menacing. George, too, loved his craft. The wagon was an extension of it, and he wanted it to be the best it could be. And it almost was.

He sat on an upturned wooden crate off stage left, sanding the spokes on one of the wagon's wheels, prepping it for the art crew to paint. To his surprise, and secretly to his delight, Fern had strolled over and was now standing in front of him.

"How is everything coming along?" she said eyeing the wheel.

"Oh, you know, okay."

"I can't believe you actually went for it and built a whole wagon," she marveled.

"It's not a _whole_ wagon," he said. "Mostly, it's just a façade, and it's not even functional. Uh, but with any luck, it'll look real enough so the audience can suspend their disbelief."

He dusted the spokes off with a rag and leaned the wheel against the crate. Do you want to see what I've got so far?"

He stood and motioned for her to join him backstage where the wagon lay in bare, unpainted fragments.

"It'll be about two thirds to scale once it's assembled. I'll hide casters behind the wheels so I won't have to worry about putting them on axels. A couple of crew members will pull the wagon across the stage with a black rope when it "arrives" in River City. I just need to add a structurally sound platform at the rear so Buster can leap onto it to retrieve the band instruments. Maria made that request. That will be the trickiest part."

Fern nodded in approval.

"This is very ambitious. And it looks like top-quality work."

"Well… I mean, the rear is a little wonky, and it could use a lot more sanding… It's still just a bunch of wood, really, until Sue Ellen does the paint job and makes it look like the real thing."

Why did he always do this, point out the flaws in his work whenever someone gave him a compliment? He doubted there was anyone at school who could match his woodworking skills, but that still did not prevent him from thinking there was more he could do to make it all just a little bit better.

_Why can't you just take the compliment? Talk to her like a normal person? This was never a problem before. _

Not with Fern. She was his friend. Over the past year or so, however, he could not help but feel nervous and self-conscious whenever she was near. He was awkward around her, always afraid he would say something dumb, always aware of just how bulky his braces felt in his mouth. He liked it better when he was only anxious about one thing at a time.

_She's right there_, he thought. _Take your shot._

"I, um, am also working on the decorations for the Autumn Ball. Refurbishing them, I guess you'd say. You know, working on the fake trees. Binky is on the committee, and if you think he's bad _here_… I think they're going to look pretty nice. It was my suggestion to add some plywood apple trees and repurpose them for _The Wizard of Oz_ this spring."

"Such a good idea," said Fern.

This was awkward city. He was all over the place.

"Yeah… Anyway, the ball sets are going to be really nice."

He closed his mouth tightly and ran his tongue over his braces, hoping cookie goo was not stuck in them.

"I probably won't even go. I don't know who I'd go with."

"Oh, don't say that, George," Fern said. "You're such a good dancer, it would be a shame for you not to go, even if you don't have a date."

"Uh…"

This had not gone at all how he planned.

_Just do it, man._

He should ask her if she wanted to go. He had practiced this morning, mumbling it in the bathroom mirror.

"Hey, Fern," he had said to his reflection in the middle of his oral hygiene routine. "I really want to go to the Autumn Ball. To dance. Not for romance, or anything. And since you don't have a date—no, that's rude to assume she wouldn't have a date… If you, for some unlikely reason, don't have a date—no, I can't say that, either. What if she doesn't have a date, and I make it seem like she should by now, and the fact that she doesn't is bad? Okay, okay… Fern, I want to go to the Autumn Ball—to dance, you know. I like dancing… Um, so If you want to go and don't have a date, would you be okay with going with me? Just as friends?"

He had smiled broadly at himself.

"Nailed it."

He desperately wanted to ask her, but now that Fern was in front of him, George possessed more courage to drive a stake through a vampire's heart than he did to go through with it. Buster had returned, rounding the curtains into the backstage area in search of Fern. His expression brightened when he found her.

"Break's over!" came Binky's voice from the stage. "On your marks! We're gonna finish this choreography tonight if it kills us!"

"You heard the man, Miss Marian. The ladies' dance committee meets on Tuesdays," Buster said smoothly to Fern, semi-quoting one of Harold's lines. He proffered his elbow in a gentlemanly fashion. "Ready to make lines with our spines and tuck in our butts?"

Fern giggled a particularly girlish giggle for Fern and linked arms with Buster as they headed back to the stage.

Fern's voice trailed off as she answered with, "Do we have a choice?"

George would have given anything to be Buster right now, or Buster's arm, at the very least. He left in their wake to take his place, shoulders sagging under his self-defeat. Another day, another missed opportunity.

"READY?" Binky called out to them once everyone was present and on their marks. "FIVE—SIX—SEVEN—EIGHT…"

* * *

The sun was beginning to set as Alan walked Muffy to the limo. The session had lasted longer than usual, thanks to Operation: Date Night.

"That could have gone better," Alan said.

"I think it went very well," said Muffy, her confidence genuine.

"Yes. We got a very solid maybe. It's up to Mom, and I expect a veto from her. Maybe I should get back to Prunella tonight and figure out an alternate location."

"So negative, Alan. Reach for a little more optimism."

"I'm hoping to contact the deceased. That's not reaching enough for you?"

"I mean pay more attention to the bigger picture, to more than what your dad _said_. You might have heard a solid maybe, but I could see the wheels turning in his head. He wants this. We convinced him, and now he will convince _her_. You're golden. He adores you, by the way."

"Dad? Adores? I think you're overexaggerating."

"I'm underselling it, if anything. And you think you're some kind of burden to them… He doesn't hide it. Why can't you see it?"

"I don't know, maybe because I don't exactly feel all that adorable. I haven't been my best in a long time, and they've had to deal with it as well. That does things to one's morale."

Muffy gave a sad smile.

"I guess…but we can still love someone, even when they aren't at their best. Like, there are days when I wish I could shake Daddy or strangle Chip. And don't even get me started on Francine… But, also, I couldn't imagine my life without them. Weird, right? You're not a burden, not even close. They love you to pieces."

"I still feel guilty. I want to get better. I want to try, but it's difficult, trying to change."

"I get that. Maybe not in the same way as you, but I do. I promised Daddy I would try to be better. It wasn't just lip service, either. Since that day outside Dr. Hartmann-Krause's office, I've been trying to cure my rep disease."

She paused at the quizzical look he must have given her.

"I don't want distrust to be everyone's default setting whenever they look at me. Daddy claims to be big on accountability and responsibility and all that these days, and I guess he's right. I've been trying to do the right thing since that day, even though it's kind of hard to figure out exactly what the right thing is sometimes. Like you said, it's difficult to maintain. I fell back into my old habits really easily. I practically kicked in Prunella's door and threatened her instead of trying to reason with her. I manipulated your dad like it was nothing. Maybe I haven't changed at all."

"That's not true," Alan said. "You've evolved. Maybe you haven't been perfect, but…the bigger picture. Thank you for helping me. With everything."

Muffy looked touched to the point of near-embarrassment.

"We're Team Hot Mess," she said sheepishly. "We should stick up for each other."

"Team what? You named us?"

"Yeah. Yesterday. In my head. I think it fits."

Muffy opened the limo door, and Alan spoke a parting word before she could get in.

"I just want you to know that I do intend to keep my promise to you, come what may."

"That's great, but can you do just one more thing? Make that promise to yourself, too."

Alan nodded.

"Also, don't text Prunella tonight. I have a feeling you'll be texting me instead, and you'll have some very good news to share."

_To be continued…_


	19. Narrowing the Gaps

As the limo wound its way through the residential area of Elwood City and back to the Crosswire estate, Muffy busied herself with her Infinity. Rather than perusing social media, she was taking care of a failsafe for Saturday night. While Alan and his father were both out of the kitchen this afternoon, she had grabbed Alan's phone and snapped a picture of Mr. Powers's contact information. She did not think things would reach emergency levels on Saturday night, but she wanted to be prepared for even the worst scenarios.

"Just in case I can't handle it myself," she promised herself under her breath. _That's what responsible people do, right?_

She had saved the number under AAA so it would appear at the top of her list, ready in a pinch. As she did, the Infinity buzzed in her hand, its screen luminous with the picture she had taken of Chip at Lucien's.

"Is your study thing over?" he said once she had answered.

"On my way home. Did you make a rez for next week?"

"Uh, that's why I'm calling you, actually."

His voice sounded heavy.

"Oh, what's going on?"

"Let me start by saying it's not that I don't want to spend time with you…"

That was all Muffy needed. She knew what was coming next.

"Is it Catherine?"

"Yeah. Yeah. We had a long talk last night about how difficult it's been to get together lately. Look, Muffler, I don't want to cut our thing out completely, yours and mine, but I can't lose her. I have to do everything I can to narrow the gap."

Muffy was silent as she absorbed Chip's words.

"What do you say to every other Monday or just playing it by ear?"

A part of Muffy thought, _I've missed you for five years. At least Catherine got to visit you in secret from time to time. What about _our_ gap? What about the gap between you and the rest of us?_

Was that too selfish? She stopped herself from expressing those thoughts. The last thing she wanted was to start an argument.

Maybe this was something she just did not quite understand. She had never felt what it was like to be in love. At least, she had never experienced the feelings she associated with the term. She did not understand that particular need, the need to be next to someone, a significant other, to make a relationship grow. Chip had not had it easy in love, and now he talked of how lucky he felt to have Catherine in his life. Maybe he deserved a lucky break, or to at least feel less alone. The desire to feel less alone was most definitely a feeling with which she could identify. She did not want Chip to feel that kind of loneliness, and there were certainly worse companions than Catherine to have next to him.

"You promise you won't disappear?" she said. "You just got back."

"I'm done with disappearing. I swear it. I'll see you soon, don't worry. And we've got Thanksgiving coming up. If the big guy and I don't kill each other, maybe I can risk Christmas, too. Who knows? I mean, _I_ don't know, not for sure. But still…it could happen. I'm willing to try anything to make it work with her, Muff, you have no idea."

There was a surge of happiness in her chest.

"Christmas? Maybe we all could go to Aspen," she offered, "just like old times."

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves… Are you going to be okay?"

"I think so. I miss you already."

"Same."

"Can I plan your wedding?"

"Goodnight, Muffy."

"Love you," she said with a laugh. "Mean it."

* * *

"This wouldn't happen to be a ploy to get your job back, would it?" Alan's mother said to him, her tone suspicious.

Since Muffy's departure, Alan had been doing homework in his room. He had come downstairs when his parents called him a couple of minutes before dinner and asked him to have a seat between them on the sofa. Asking him to have a seat was always the obvious tell things were about to get serious. Alan was sure the discussion would be about the Splendor of Light tickets, and he suspected his mother might put up resistance, but he had not expected this conclusion from her.

Had she posited that the tickets were a ploy to get them out of the house, he might have grown nervous, might have given up his endeavor. But her preposterous assumption was enough to allow him to form a delicate, authentic indignation without seeming petulant. Alan pressed his lips together and thought about what to say.

"You theorize that I…asked Muffy to spend what must have been hundreds of dollars on those tickets, a purchase that would have needed her parents' approval to make…and offer them to dad so I could…bribe you?"

His mother stared at him while he worked his way through her logic. Once he finished, it was as if she realized the weakness of her reasoning and was embarrassed by it. She looked down as his father leaned across Alan toward her.

"I told you it didn't make much sense," he mumbled to her with a smile.

Alan saw the subtle expression on his father's face, a wordless communication between him and his mother that was akin to a plea. Could Muffy be right? Did his father want this? Had he convinced his mother?

"I do want my job back," Alan said, figuring some honesty could help the situation. It was not a secret, after all. "My extracurriculars as well. But, Mom, that's a pretty grandiose and expensive scheme. If you don't want me to cover closing Saturday evening, that's fine, but you don't have to make this out to be something it's not."

Manipulating them further, especially after Muffy's speech on how much his parents loved him felt irredeemably dirty, but he was following Muffy's advice on how to deflect their suspicions. The verdict was coming up, he could sense it.

He wondered which other locations Prunella had in mind for a second séance. Could it be a place Lydia loved, Glenbrook Academy or one of her favorite indie bookstores? They could not hold a séance inside, but what about in the parking lot? He knew little about how this stuff worked.

_What if she wants to hold it at Lydia's grave? _

It was a scary thought. Alan had never been there and was not sure he could force himself to go, but if it meant getting answers…

"I'm just making sure," his mother said, her voice gentler now. "Actually, we seriously discussed it, your dad and I. He told me how well you handle your tutoring sessions, how relaxed you seem. You really enjoy yourself, don't you?"

This did not require him to lie, deflect, or bend anything. It was an easy answer.

"I do," Alan said with an earnest nod. "Like I said. I hate being idle, and helping Muffy matters. I like doing things that matter."

"I could tell," his father said. "You're a natural teacher. I don't remember the last time I saw you smile so much."

He had smiled?

"If you want to help us," his mother said slowly, "we're willing to give you a shot at the last hour and a half. It is the slowest block of Saturday, during this time of year, anyway, so it shouldn't be too out of hand for you. I can bring my dress and coat and change in the office, and your dad can pick me up on the way to Erie. If you wouldn't mind staying with Muffy and Bailey after closing, until you get a call from us, that would be preferred."

"That shouldn't be a problem," Alan said, allowing himself to sound as eager as he felt. "I'll touch base with Muffy tomorrow."

"But understand, honey, that, if there are any problems at all, you are to call us. Will you do that?"

"I understand, yes. And don't worry about me. I'm happy to help, really."

"Another thing…" she said, placing a hand on his forearm. "If Saturday goes well, maybe we could try it again the week after next, then a full supervised shift the week after that."

Alan understood why his mother wanted him to skip next Saturday. She knew him well. Next Saturday was Halloween. More importantly, it was the anniversary, typically not a good day for him. If he had a breakthrough with Prunella, however, perhaps that would change going forward.

"We'll work on a gradual progression," his father said bracingly, "one that will help us gauge how you're handling things, when to hold back, when to add more."

"We just want to know that it's right for you, that you're going to be okay with everything."

This was good news, even if it would take some time to get back where he belonged. He would have to be at his best and work hard to prove himself. He could not slip up. And after Saturday, perhaps he would have answers.

It was not that Alan did not feel the weight of everything he was going through. The weight was always with him, like a hundred-pound rucksack strapped to his shoulders. But this was one of the rare moments he allowed himself to crumple under the weight in front of others. His eyes welled with tears and he was quick to wipe them away.

"I'm sorry," he said hastily. "I'm not sad—I'm glad you're giving me the opportunity. Thank you. I know I haven't been easy to deal with, and... I'm sorry."

His parents enveloped him, wrapping him in hugs, warm and tight, patting his back. Dinner would be late that evening.

Alan had to get his life back. Thanks to Muffy, he was well on his way. Now all he had to do was hold up his end of the bargain, and he would. He sat on the sofa and allowed his parents' love to wash over him, ignoring the tiny, quiet voice of his vicious inner monologue as it struggled to make its presence known.

_Will you, though?_ it said somewhere far off. _Will you really?_

* * *

Muffy sat in front of her vanity, brushing her hair when the text alert sounded. Losing time with Chip had bummed her out despite her efforts to be happy for him, but hearing the sweet sound from her Infinity lifted her spirits. She knew exactly who it was. She could not help but smile at her reflection.

She had not agreed to help Alan because she believed he would get any real answers out of the séance. If going through the motions of keeping her end of the bargain got him one step closer to confessing his Lydia problems to Dr. Hartmann-Krause, then it was worth all the trouble. It was worth the stress. It was worth backsliding. It was worth standing by his side and helping him see it through.

Muffy did not trust Prunella. She expected more of her dramatic, hokey shtick, for her to tell Alan what he wanted to hear. That would not help Alan in any way, but maybe Dr. Hartmann-Krause could handle that. Once she reached home, a chilling thought occurred to her: What if Prunella used the second séance to torture Alan further? It had hit her hard enough to make her forget about Chip for a while.

Her first instinct had been to leave Prunella a scathing text, warning her that, unless she wanted to be miserable until she moved away from Elwood City, she had better play nice with Alan. She stopped herself, inhaled deeply, thought deeply, and then sent Prunella a request she hoped would not stoke her into hurting Alan anyway.

**Please be kind to Alan. He's been through a lot already.**

Prunella had not responded. After her blowup yesterday, Muffy had not really expected her to.

Muffy put down her brush and picked up the Infinity. As suspected, it was not a reply from Prunella, but a message from Alan.

**We are on for Saturday. You were right.**

Muffy typed her response as she left the vanity for her bed. She sent the message then fluffed her pillows, crawled in and snuggled up underneath her covers.

**I know. Score one for Team Hot Mess.**

**Committed to that name, are you?**

**You don't like it?**

**I have a lot to tell you tomorrow.**

An MTV special about the _Deadlight_ movie, which was set to open Halloween weekend, played on her television. Muffy had been listening intently as she readied herself for bed, but now she found it much too loud. She reached for the remote on her nightstand and pressed MUTE. Jude Pendleton, who was giving an interview on the movie set in full Richard costume and makeup, moved his lips silently.

**You're changing the subject.**

**It's fine. I like it fine.**

**You hate it. So is it good stuff? What you have to tell me?**

**I think it's promising.**

**Tell me now.**

**It's bedtime.**

**And I don't care. You said you feel freest to converse when you're with me.**

**I'm technically not with you.**

**Don't be a nitpicker, Zen Master. Be free. Converse.**

There was a long pause.

**All right.**

_To be continued… _


	20. Novels

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s outside the norm for me to post chapters in rapid succession (if you can call, like, three days rapid succession), but I was home today with extra time on my hands and figured I'd go ahead. I’ve also begun Project Danger (working title), which takes place after the events of The Haunted Love Story. I took it on as a NaNo thing this year to shorten the gap between installments of A Different Point of View. Maybe. Hopefully. That could mean longer delays between THLS chapters, but I’m trying my best not to let that happen. Fair warning, though.  
Take care and be well.

It was two in the morning.

_I should get some sleep, _Muffy thought._ Tomorrow is only Wednesday. Or today is Wednesday, I guess._

But it was difficult to let go, to fall under.

She and Alan had stayed up well past midnight, texting each other. Hesitant at the beginning, Alan had eventually opened up, and he was wordy once he got going. They both had been, now that she reexamined the entire conversation. First, Alan had given her the good news that his parents were giving him a trial run at his job Saturday evening. Genuine excitement was evident in his texts, though he was fairly reserved in his language.

Muffy had wondered during their exchange if Alan's hiatus was one of the things that spurred his relapse, if, in their attempt to help Alan rest, his parents had inadvertently provided him with more time to sink into restlessness. There could be something to the idea, but there was probably way more to it than just that. That was why it was important Alan go to Dr. Hartmann-Krause on his own. He could not be forced into getting well. It was a decision he would have to make for himself.

She did not mention therapy or Lydia or his problems at all for fear of him shutting down. If he wanted to bring it up, that was fine; she was willing to listen. For now, however, she was happy he was opening up to someone about life. This was a bright spot in the past few days, like a ray of sunlight slipping through the gap in a set of drapes, warming a small space in an otherwise dark room. They were conversing, and for once they weren't talking about the séance.

An unstoppable flow of words came from the two of them as they chatted about school, classmates, friends, and when Alan planned to get his learner's permit. They wrote novels to each other, and, despite the late hour, neither of them minded. The conversation eventually died about forty-five minutes ago. Alan had politely broken it off, suggesting they go to sleep and continue at lunch. He had tried to apologize for keeping her up so late, but she would have none of it.

Now Muffy lay in bed, her television long turned off, moonlight streaming into her room, as she drowsily revisited certain parts of their conversation, amazed at just how much they had written in a couple of hours. She scrolled back to the part where she herself had opened up, confessing her fears about her brother.

**Maybe it was in the back of my mind. It's like I knew exactly what Chip was going to say as soon as he brought it up. I wonder how I knew that.**

**He's been upset about not seeing his girlfriend and afraid that he was going to lose her. I think it was in the unconscious, so, yes, the back of your mind. Not to sound insensitive, but it was inevitable that he would make sacrifices to spend more time with her if he was determined to sustain their relationship.**

**Even if it means spending less time with me, a blood relative.**

**Don't take it personally. Possibilities present themselves when you enter a relationship. You gain a new perspective; you change; everything changes. You want to discover what you can become as a couple. You want to figure things out. That was my experience, anyway, and I was only 13. Chip is 25?**

**Almost. OMG You're right. Chip isn't a teenager anymore. He'll be 30 freaking years old soon. Of course he's changed. It's like I've been thinking of him as a college kid who hung around during summer and holidays after all these years. His job and apartment aren't just because of what happened in Florida. That's literally his life now. I mean I KNEW that, but you know what I'm talking about. It's SINKING IN. He really will get married someday. He'll have children and his own family dinners and Christmas mornings. His own everything. He really is gone. Isn't he? We'll never get him back. I legit think I'm going to be upset.**

**Don't be upset. That phase of your family dynamic may be over, but that doesn't make him any less your brother. It doesn't diminish your memories or how much you care for him.**

**I wanted him and Daddy to make amends. What if Chip gets a new family and decides he doesn't need us? What if he forgets me?**

**No one who has met you has ever forgotten you. Of that I'm certain.**

**Was that a dig? I'm in the middle of a crisis and can't really tell.**

**Chip went out of his way to email you while he was away. He will not forget you.**

**I feel so stupid for freaking out. But I can't NOT freak out. They have to make up before it's too late.**

**You're not stupid. Are you afraid to let it go and allow them to live happy, separate lives?**

**That's what's wrong. I don't think they are happy at all. I think they hurt each other 5 years ago and they've never gotten over it.**

**That's on them. I know that doesn't make it easier to sit back and watch, but it isn't your fight. Sometimes I feel like you think it is, whether it's because you kept Chip's secret or for some other reason. I worry about you burdening yourself with a conflict that boils down to two people. They started everything. Your father is big on responsibility, right? It's their responsibility to repair their relationship.**

**You worry about me?**

**I don't like seeing you upset over two individuals whose actions you can't control. I'm not telling you to stop hoping for reconciliation. I'm not even telling you to stop encouraging them to talk. I just don't want you to beat yourself up if they can't forgive each other.**

**You really are sweet. Sometimes. **

**Are you all right?**

**I've worried about this since I was 9. I don't know if I can let it go. But maybe I should calm down at least a little. We've realistically got at least a couple of years before he marries off. After that, who knows? Maybe Catherine will be a positive influence on him.**

**Catherine?**

**Shit! OMG I wasn't supposed to tell anyone that!**

**Francine's sister?**

**I said I'd keep my mouth shut. I got carried away. OMG I'm a stupid bitch.**

**No, you're not! That's who he's dating?**

**She said she'd break my arm if I told!**

**Muffy, relax. Why are they keeping it a secret?**

**I don't know! Catherine is weird! I'm freaking out all over again.**

**There's no need to freak out. Who am I going to tell? Consider this text conversation an extension of the cabin. Nothing leaves it, so no one has to know we said it.**

**Thanks. That means a lot.**

**We're Team Hot Mess, aren't we? We have to help each other out.**

**Aww. You're warming up to the name.**

**Don't be so sure. It looks weird when I type it.**

Muffy revisited that segment of the conversation over and over. Alan was right about both her father and her brother; she could control neither one of them. However, just as Alan could not relinquish his desire to contact Lydia, she doubted she could let this go. It was too huge, a big unanswered question. Maybe it was up to her father and Chip to settle their differences, but it did not boil down to just the two of them. It hurt the whole family, even if her brother was not a child anymore. It still hurt every single one of them.

_How do you let something like that go?_ was the thought on which she dwelled before at last giving into exhaustion.

_To be continued…_


	21. Pure, Unedited Fern

Fern had spent a great deal of her savings to get into Wonderworld on Saturday afternoon. The annual Spooktoberfest was going on, which meant that, throughout the month of October, the theme park was dressed up with every sort of spooky offering imaginable. Upon entry, guests were greeted by the grand circular garden in the main courtyard. The garden had been converted into an ancient graveyard straight off the set of a horror film, complete with blackened and decaying headstones and fake trees with gnarled branches, dripping with Spanish moss. A large crow—fake, of course—perched on one of the headstones closest to a gaping hole in the ground which could not have been very deep, but was there all the same to give the illusion of a freshly-dug grave. The black-cloaked statue of a gravedigger was positioned next to the grave, his shovel stuck into a mound of dark earth, frozen mid-dig. At dusk, fog machines would start up, and scareactors would roam the walkways, dressed as everything from werewolves, to aliens, to blood-thirsty, demonic clowns, seek out the easy prey among the parkgoers and elicit shrieks and screams from them. "Road to Nowhere", the park's signature haunt designed around a desolate stretch of highway in the midst of the zombie apocalypse, would open to guests who had purchased a special Spooktoberfest pass. Numerous Jack-o'-lanterns sat tucked into every nook and cranny of the park, all with twisted expressions and glowing red eyes. Animatronic skeletons and zombies lurked around corners or from behind tree trunks. There was even a gigantic anaconda hanging from a branch, equipped with a speaker that emitted a chilling hiss. Even the food court was not to be outdone. The two waterfall fountains on either side of the archway entrance flowed with water dyed a radioactive green, and several prop food carts had been set up near the real vendors, each offering sinister versions of Wonderworld's usual fare. The cart that garnered the most oohs and ahs from guests had to be the creepy popcorn cart. Through the glass incasing the popper, one could clearly make out a pile of glassy eyeballs with every possible color of iris instead of popped kernels of corn. It certainly had been Fern's favorite.

_If only this place were like this all the time…_ she mused as she polished off the last of her beverage.

Fern had purchased a Sangue Latte, which was nothing more than white hot chocolate topped with a pillow of latte foam and a heavy drizzle of raspberry syrup, but it was delicious. She sipped her final sips, sitting on a bench as she took in her surroundings with a giddy smile on her face, occasionally pushing back into place the fake, black-rimmed glasses that kept sliding down her nose. Fern was not here for Spooktoberfest; she was here on a mission, and that mission included a bit of trespassing.

As she continued to develop _Around the Dark Corner_, her newest and perhaps favorite project to date, Fern had discovered something about Kelly, the book's protagonist. In addition to being an urban explorer in her spare time, Kelly was also a theme park enthusiast. A shower thought had hit Fern one morning, that Kelly's two loves must overlap, and she instantly knew that _Around the Dark Corner_ needed an opening scene in which Kelly sneaked into an abandoned and off-limits area of a theme park near her hometown. That meant research, practical research, if Fern could manage it. That was the best kind of research, in her opinion.

She had searched online for local legends, anything that would get her close to what she needed for her story, and she had hit a wellspring of information about Wonderworld. The Elwood City theme park had been in operation for decades, and there used to be a small section of the park called "Kiddie Cove". Of course, there was no real cove in Kiddie Cove, but it was entirely pirate-themed, with a swinging pirate ship ride, a coaster appropriate for younger children, a swashbuckling stage show, and a water slide and wade pool during the warmer months. The Cove had operated with middling success until The Powers That Be pulled the plug on the attraction and its wade pool in the fall of 1988. Rather than sink money into revamping or demolishing it, a new standalone restroom area was erected at the mouth of the pathway leading to Kiddie Cove, adorned with a hedgerow and flowerbeds. Beyond this, the rest of the pathway remained, and all one had to do to reach Kiddie Cove was travel the path through the overgrown tunnel trellis to find the old section that was tucked away from the rest of the park.

Countless explorers had done it, some even travelling from out of state to get a look at the Cove, and they all came back to the internet to share their findings. What was most curious about their explorations had been the lack of consequences that came with sneaking into the Cove. Of all the accounts Fern had read, and she had combed the web until she was sure she had read them all, only one man had been arrested, and that was because he had been caught in Kiddie Cove in the dead of night, having broken into Wonderworld after hours, which was already illegal. A few had managed to sneak into the Cove and back out undetected, but the majority of explorers had been caught, and all they had received was a slap on the wrist. Most accounts claimed security either told them to leave the area or escorted them to the park's gate, whereupon the explorers were warned not to come back for the rest of the day.

Many were perplexed by the lax security and absence of repercussions. The prevailing theory, one to which Fern personally subscribed, was that it all came down to money for Wonderworld. One could not sneak into Kiddie Cove if one did not pay the Wonderworld entry fee. And if one made it into the Cove, only to be thrown out with no real consequences, then they would surely brag about their success on the internet. Their bragging would gain attention, the attention would breed enthusiasm, which would breed copycats, and the copycats would buy even more tickets to Wonderworld so they could try their hand at breaking into Kiddie Cove. The circle of life and all that.

And now it was Fern's turn. If she was thrown out of Wonderworld, even for a whole year, it was no skin off her nose. She was not even upset that Buster had turned her down at rehearsal Tuesday night. Putting their one-on-one practice off until Sunday meant she would have time to explore Wonderworld today. Besides, she could just as easily ask him tomorrow. Still, there were butterflies in her stomach, and she was certain they had nothing to do with sneaking into Kiddie Cove.

During her respite on the bench, which was located outside the food court and directly across from the restroom pavilion barring the entrance to Kiddie Cove, Fern had been doing more than appreciating her surroundings. She had been devising her plan and assessing just how many security cameras there were in the area. There was only one that was remotely close by, a small black dome attached to one of the lampposts. It was possible that there were more hidden, as well as plain-clothes security guards milling about the crowds. It was probably a given, but she would not be deterred.

_Now or never, Fern. It's showtime._

Her cup was empty. She discarded it into the garbage can next to the bench and stood, tugging at the hem of her denim jacket, to which she had tacked an "I Heart Wonderworld" button, just so everyone would know how big a fan she was. She reached into her gray shoulder bag and withdrew the Wonderworld map of attractions, opened it up upside down on purpose and gave it a puzzled expression as she looked it over. She brought the map closer to her face as if studying it carefully, adjusted her fake glasses, then lowered the map quickly to look at the restrooms in confusion. She glanced back to the map, back to the restrooms, back to the map, then shrugged. She made a beeline toward the pavilion, peered around the side of the building, then slipped out of sight.

The hedgerow was higher than her hips. Fortunately, she found a small gap through which she could slip. Others had apparently used the gap, too, for the edges were ragged, naked twigs that looked as if they had been brushed clean of their leaves thanks to people passing through. She was on the footpath now, and she walked along its cracked and crumbling surface as the tunnel trellis stretched out before her. The sunlight filtered green through the multitude of climbing vines stretching over the trellis. There were splashes of orange-red, dying poison ivy that had somehow found its way into the neglected, overgrown mix. Fern did not have to walk far before signage made an appearance, each warning guests to turn back, that this was a restricted area, and only authorized employees may enter. Fern shifted the map to one hand so she could fumble in her bag for her phone. Time was of the essence, and if she wanted pictures, she would need to be quick.

Briefly, she wondered if Buster would be interested in hearing about her trip to Kiddie Cove. He likely would. Was there a way she could tell him about it and perhaps seamlessly segue into asking him what she wanted to ask him? She would have to be crafty, but she was sure she could come up with something.

"What are you doing?" she breathed to herself. "You shouldn't be thinking about him right now."

What she was feeling right now was an overabundance of nerves at the prospect of tomorrow, and it was hard not to think about it. Fern was a lurker, an observer. She never laid it all out, not in the way she was planning, never exposed her true thoughts and feelings. Never this way. Normally, she expressed herself through her art, but she could always mold it, shape it, edit and pare it down to be exactly what she needed it to be. Her expression always came through the guise of others—the characters she created. They could do and say anything she wanted them to because they were different people. To express herself in the way she intended to tomorrow would be pure, unedited Fern Walters, without a face or name or character description behind which she could hide. It would be herself and her feelings. Truth. And her crush. A terrifying thing she would experience in just a few short hours.

_Experience _this_!_ _You need to get to the Cove and get this done. Be in the moment _here_. Be in the moment for your story, for _Kelly_. _

Kelly needed to see what Fern saw, hear what she heard, feel what she felt. Fern had to take it all in so she could, in turn, convey it properly.

Fern began snapping pictures before she had exited the tunnel trellis. A sharp thrill ran up her spine as she caught the first real-world glimpse of what she had previously only seen in poorly-lit photos on the web. Kiddie Cove really was a small area. Everything seemed cramped. The stage was no bigger than one might find at a county fair—old, wooden, and rotting. There were very few seats, and they were positioned way too close to the coaster tracks. Surely that must have been noisy if not dangerous. A musty odor came off the wade pool. Though drained upon closing, it obviously retained water every time it rained, and it was left behind to stagnate. The pirate ship ride was well past its glory days, if it had ever actually seen any, a mass of metal with peeling paint and rusting bolts and rivets. Kiddie Cove had been reduced to a sad, eerie ghost town, and it was oddly beautiful.

"Excuse me!" called a squeaky male voice from behind Fern, growing ever closer. "This is a restricted area and you need to leave!"

A teenaged staff member, judging by the voice. The jig was up, but she was probably safe. To be sure, it was probably best to keep up the dumb act. People could be forgiving of those they deemed too dumb to live. Fern slackened her jaw and turned around, pointing at her upside-down map and looking utterly lost.

"Hey, yo," she said dully to the young cat boy donning a Wonderworld staff polo, "is this the, uh, the Road to Nowhere haunt thingy?"

The boy gave his surroundings a once-over and then looked back to Fern with a you've-got-to-be-kidding-me expression.

"Does anything about this place scream 'Road to Nowhere' to you?" His tone exuded condescension, and it was clear that what little authority he had been given went straight to his head. "I mean, did you even bother to read the signs that said you were not allowed to come in here?"

"Ohhh," said Fern. "Those were _real_ signs. I just thought they were decorations. You know, for the haunt? This place looks pretty haunt-y…"

It gave her immense satisfaction to see how much this irritated the boy.

"It's not a haunt," he said, growing testier by the second. "Road to Nowhere is located past the food court and near the Hurl-a-Whirl. Please leave now. And I don't know if you realize it, but you're holding your map upside down."

Fern looked at her map and made a shocked face. "Oh my god, you're sooo right. Ah, now I feel, like, really dumb. Thanks a bunch…"

And with that she walked back into the tunnel trellis, pushing up her glasses yet again. The boy followed her out, mumbling something about how much he hated working with people under his breath. Fern did not care enough to hone in on what he was saying. Her spirits as well as her courage had been bolstered by this little field trip. She had done it, a successful trek into the legendary Kiddie Cove. She now had tons of inspiration for her book, and to top it off, she was now free to think about Buster and how she planned to throw caution to the wind and ask him to the Autumn Ball tomorrow.

_To be continued…_


	22. New Heights

It would be dark soon. Alan sat in the passenger seat, looking down at the stark white apron rolled in his hands. While his father drove to the ice cream shop, he thought about the hours ahead of him and the weight they carried, the potential they held. He had an hour and a half to prove himself at work and, hopefully, open the door to another thread of normalcy in his life. After closing the shop, Muffy would pick him up and, instead of going to the Crosswire estate for a horror movie night with friends, they would head straight to his house, where Prunella would be waiting for them. Once there, they would hold the second séance and, hopefully, open the door to another realm.

_Which cannot be considered normalcy, not in any conceivable way. Certainly not for you._

Now was not the time for his vicious inner monologue to rise up. He needed to stay focused, not to mention he was unable to rebut since his father was right next to him. He was jolted to the present when his father spoke.

"Again, your mom and I appreciate the help."

"No problem, Dad."

He had not meant for it to come out as short and perfunctory as it sounded. His tone had caught his father's attention, too.

"Are you nervous?"

His grip on the apron tightened.

"May I be honest?"

_Are you really going to do this now?_

Alan ignored himself.

"I don't want you to be anything but," his father said.

"I am. A little. I like my job. I'm sure it was inadvertent on your part, but when you and Mom imposed the hiatus, it made me feel like I was doing it poorly, like I was in some way inadequate and you needed to intervene. So, yeah, it sort of feels like the pressure is on."

"It was never about the way you did your job."

"I know that, but that isn't how anxiety works. It's not about what I _know_, and that's a huge problem for someone like me. I know you love me, but it's as if there's a voice inside me, telling me that you're judging me as well. Sometimes pressure makes the voice louder. I don't want to disappoint you guys."

"Allow me to take a load off your mind," his father said. "Or at least try: I'm very proud of you."

"I can't comprehend why."

"For starters, you're just an all-around amazing kid. You're smart, talented, resourceful…this is a short drive, and I don't have time to break out the list. But what I think I admire most about you is your resilience."

"You…think _I'm_ resilient?"

"Damn right, I do. I know you are. I can't imagine what you're going through, what you've already been through, but don't think for a second I don't see you. Even in the hardest times, you keep going. And you've held a job and kept your top-notch grades through it all. And now you're even helping Muffy get better? All that is just incredible. I was a hopeless idiot when I was your age. But you? You're something else."

"I've messed up a lot," Alan said in a quiet voice.

"Who _hasn't_? But you've always come around, back to yourself, and asked for help when you knew things were too much. That's what matters. That's more than smarts, son; that's wisdom. All we wanted was to give you a break because we thought you deserved one. But if all this stuff makes you happy, gives you fulfillment, then I don't see why you shouldn't have it back. Just as long as you promise to keep asking for help if and when you need it."

Alan nodded. What a coincidence that they thought he deserved a break just as he, Alan, thought the same about them. The car pulled up to the curb near the ice cream shop entrance.

"I hope you and Mom have a great time tonight," he said sincerely. "And don't worry—everything is going to be fine."

Alan played it cool, though he could not exit the car soon enough. He walked through the shop door and gave his mother a smile and a thumbs up as he went to the back to wash up. When he came back a couple of minutes later, donning his apron, she promptly left the counter and gave him a whispered, "Good luck, honey, and call if you need _anything_," followed by a peck on the cheek before heading to the office to change.

He looked around the shop. The setting sun shone through the windows and bathed the tables in a golden-orange spotlight, as if the sky somehow knew he had won a coveted prize. This really was the dullest part of fall evenings. Only a handful of patrons occupied the space. A teen couple sat on one side of a table in the far-left corner, smiling dreamily at each other over a shared milkshake, and it was obvious they did not plan to stick around for much longer. Closer to the counter, D.W., James, Bud, and Emily, gathered together. At a table close by sat Marie-Hélène, who had accompanied them. The kids were chatting among themselves and enjoying their cones, all except D.W., who stared straight at Alan, looking very happy to see him. She wordlessly handed what remained of her cone over to James without so much as looking at the boy and strolled toward the counter.

"Alan, is it my birthday?" she said casually as she climbed into one of the stools and sat there.

"What's up, D.W.?" Alan said, humoring her. "I haven't seen you in ages."

"I know. What's up with that? I asked your mom where you were, and she said you've been too busy for your job at the moment." She paused to look him up and down, taking in his apron. "So, does this mean you're back?"

Alan chuckled.

"After tonight, I certainly hope so."

"Good. Because I've got so much to tell you about what I've been up to…"

It was good to be back, even if there was a bothersome, hollow feeling to this victory. Why did he have that feeling? Was it just his anxiety, the bells that always rung, whether or not there was cause for alarm, or was there more to it? He listened intently as D.W. prattled on, using her anecdotes to drown out the thoughts that became progressively more persistent, telling him he was likely a fool for believing he could keep his promise, for believing he could move on after the séance.

_You know Muffy is right, don't you?_ said his vicious inner monologue. _You're just going to start this all over again__._

* * *

"I think I finally know exactly what I wanna do with my life, Mr. Baxter," said Ladonna on Saturday evening. She leaned forward, stretching her seat belt as far as it would go, and hugged the front passenger headrest for support. "And it's all thanks to ya."

Buster and Ladonna sat in the back seat together as his father drove them back into Elwood City, coming home from the Ingram Flight School. From the driver's seat, his father grinned.

"Me?" he said. "And how is that?"

"I mean, I already _know_ what I wanna do with my life. I'm going to be a veterinarian, no doubt about it. But I thought I might join the Army first and serve my country. After today, though, and bein' in that plane… I know the Air Force is the right choice for me. I want to pilot a _jet_."

As Buster had predicted, Ladonna had a blast today. It had been apparent from the moment she arrived and met Rick at the hangar entrance. His father's friend and business partner, a burly cat man in his sixties, gave Ladonna a wide, charmed smile as soon as he heard her speak.

"Say, I detect South in the mouth!" he drawled in his own accent that was different from hers yet still distinctly Southern. "Where ya from, young'n?"

"Looziana," she replied proudly as Rick handled her hand with a delicate shake. "You're from one of the Carolinas?"

"Heh… I come from a lil' place called Meredith, North Carolina, two miles from the Georgia state line. And I mean lil'—blink, and you'll miss it. We had a Citgo, a Piggly Wiggly, and a red light. Just about the Podunkiest Podunk town ya ever saw. But how did you know that?"

"Ya have a sing-song-y upswing on the end of your sentences. They almost sound like questions, so I figured maybe Carolina."

"Well, I'll be…" he said scratching his salt-and-pepper beard that was really more salt now than it was pepper. "C'mon, kids. You're ten-cent tour just got upgraded to a full dollar."

Rick had joined them as he and his father showed them the facility as well as the planes, fielding all the rapid-fire questions Ladonna asked them.

"What's this one called? How high does it go? How _fast_ does it go?"

His father laughed and said, "Why don't you hop in and find out for yourself?"

Ladonna's mouth fell open. "No foolin'?"

"I met your folks at parents' night. I called them up the other night to get the okay, and they're fine with it."

Ladonna had squeed so hard Buster was sure she reached a pitch only dogs could hear. The best part was her reaction to her first flight, from the way she gripped her safety belt and exclaimed, "Oh, lord!" upon takeoff to the way she stared out her window once they were up in the sky, awestruck as she said, "Amazin'… It's like everythin' is huge but also tiny at the same time…" After that, she had fallen silent, sitting with her hand pressed against the glass, her eyes full of wonder.

_I really am the king of gift giving_, Buster thought as he observed her.

She had hugged his father and Rick once they landed, thanking them profusely for everything. On the drive home she had grilled his father with even more questions about planes, what it was like to fly one, and how to become a pilot. And now here she was, declaring that her career path had been changed in a couple of hours.

"Hey," Buster said in mock offense, leaning forward himself. "what about me? This whole thing was my idea, so don't go leaving me out of your speech when you accept your award for having the best veterinarian slash fighter pilot skills in America. I'm sure that's gotta be a thing…"

Ladonna let go of the headrest and fell back into her seat with a cushioned crash.

"I might add a line in there somewhere that mentions ya," she said with a smirk.

The car had come to a stop outside the Compson residence.

"It was great to meet you, Ladonna," his father said cheerfully. "I'm glad you had fun."

"Oh, I had a wonderful time," she said, opening the door. "Thanks again… Buster Baxter, be a gentleman and walk a girl up?"

As she departed, his father turned quickly in his seat to look at Buster and nod toward the house. Apparently, he was keen on Buster following. Buster got out and caught up with Ladonna, and the two made their way up the walk.

"Ya know I was just kiddin' before, right, goober? O' _course_ I'm grateful for ya. You're gonna be in all my acceptance speeches—that's just a given… That plane was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," she added in a soft, airy voice as they approached her front door. "Apart from the view. That was truly somethin' special and I don't know how I'm ever gonna thank ya enough—"

"You don't have to," Buster said quickly. "This was me thanking _you_. For the photo. For _everythin'_," he said, mimicking her speech. "Cross my heart."

"That's kinda bad," she said with a giggle, talking of his accent.

"It needs work," he agreed.

"A lotta work…"

"Just throwing it out there—it's completely up to you… A new gourmet cupcake shop just opened up downtown. If you're ever passing by one day, and you've still got that I-should-thank-Buster feeling and wanna snag one for me, well… I wouldn't be mad at it. I'm not picky about which flavor."

She nodded thoughtfully. "I could do that, I reckon. Or I could just give ya one of these…"

She leaned in and planted a soft kiss on his cheek. The world went fuzzy, and Buster lost his train of thought. What had they been talking about? Why was he here? Oh. Right…

"Um, yeah…" he said. "You should probably do that instead."

He could still feel the tickle her warm breath had made on his skin prior to her lips brushing his cheek. Words were hard to find, and so he stood there, swallowing the lump in his throat while Ladonna grinned back at him.

"I'll think about it," she said with a wink as she reached for the door handle. "See ya Monday."

She disappeared behind the door and left him dumbfounded on the porch, staring at the entrance. Moments later, Buster managed a slow and far away, "Night-night…" to no one at all. Eventually, he made it back to the car and crawled into the back seat when he could have taken the passenger's side now instead. He was not thinking about it. He had barely registered just how much his father was smiling.

"She certainly is nice," he said, breaking the silence as he pulled away from the curb.

"Uh-huh," Buster said.

"And she sure seems to like you," he said in a leading tone.

"Uh-huh."

"Do you…like her back?"

"Uh-huh."

Wait. Did he?

_To be continued…_


	23. For the Greater Good

Prunella had packed her bag over and hour before it was time to leave for Brain's house. Once she double-checked to make sure everything she would need was secured, she ran downstairs to brew some Darjeeling tea, grabbing her mother's Thermos from a cabinet and retrieving the strawberries she had washed and prepped from the fridge while it steeped. As she completed her tasks, she tried to stay mindful of her purpose tonight: to help Brain make contact with a loved one and get the answers he so desperately sought. What she tried not to focus on was the fact that tonight was the real make-it-or-break-it moment. She had experienced success at Muffy's séance, but she had been completely unaware of it. This would be her first conscious attempt since discovering her gift, and it was hard to deny that the pressure was on to stick the landing.

_Oh, great. Why did I have to use a gymnastics metaphor?_ she thought as she stirred honey into the teapot.

She knew the answer. It was because she missed Marina terribly. Everything reminded Prunella of her, from yoga to her _Henry Skreever_ collection to breakfast cereal for some strange reason. They had not spoken since the day Marina walked out on her. She had been too afraid to even call her and apologize, even though she had no idea what she would even be apologizing for. Marina was the one who had insulted her, assuming she would put her ego above helping Brain. Muffy was even worse, having to get one final dig at her over text, assuming she would outright be mean to him at the second séance. How dare they?

She transferred the Darjeeling to the Thermos and sighed heavily. Maybe she could not blame them. She did sort of have a reputation for that stuff. But that was in the past. She would show them both what she could do tonight, then she would be on the receiving end of the apologies. Then maybe Marina would even take her back.

_Take me back? I mean "be friends with me again". _

She shook her head. She needed to get out of this frame of mind. She put in her earbuds and played some upbeat pop music to put her in a positive mood as she gathered her things and left on foot for Brain's house.

* * *

It was not quite full dark when the limo rolled up to the Powers residence, but the half-moon was already bright in the clear sky. It was getting cold, too, and Prunella hugged the Thermos close to her as she watched the door open wide. Muffy was the first to emerge, and there was an awkward moment during which they had locked eyes only to look away without speaking. Alan was next, and he looked a little confused.

"Where's Marina?" he said before turning to toss a piece of rolled-up white fabric back into the limo cabin and shutting the door.

"She won't be joining us this evening," Prunella said, aware of just how stiff her tone was. "Are we good to go?"

"I texted my parents to let them know the shop is closed, that everything went well, and that Muffy had picked me up. As far as they know, we're all gathered in her den and watching _Leaf Blower 16_ right now."

"Excellent," she said, forcing a more professional demeanor. "Let us begin."

She held out a hand and gestured for Brain to lead the way. He walked ahead of them and Muffy was quick to stay close behind him. Prunella was not aware that she would be joining them tonight. That was good. She needed another witness to her mastery. Brain took his house key from his front pocket and unlocked the door, holding it for them to enter before locking it behind them. The house was quiet and darkened, illuminated only by a low-wattage lamp here or there, presumably for security purposes.

"Thanks for being here," Brain said to her. "I know we've had our differences, but I'm glad we're able to put them aside and work together."

Prunella hitched up her bag, squaring her shoulders.

"You can save your gratitude for after the séance, Brain," she said in a voice that was kind if unavoidably lofty. "In the meantime, we have work to do…"

Brain kept his room as dark as possible, choosing only to turn on his desk lamp.

"You cleaned your space?" Prunella asked him, glancing around the room as he took a seat on his bed.

"Yes," he said. "Like you suggested."

Muffy crossed the room to be by Brain's side, but she remained standing, her arms folded across her chest.

"The spirits can detect a hostile stance, Muffy," Prunella said as she began pulling items from her bag.

"I'm not being hostile," Muffy said haughtily, catching herself and then evening out her tone. "I'm waiting to get started like everyone else."

"Well, you _look_ hostile. That's all."

"Oh my god…" Muffy exhaled. "Here," she said letting her arms swing downward to her sides and allowing her shoulders to droop. "Is _this_ relaxed enough?"

Prunella regarded her for a moment. "That's perfect," she said, and she went back to work.

As she set up the candles and lit them, she stole glances at Brain and Muffy as they waited. They both looked nervous. Brain sat elbows to knees as he watched Prunella's actions, his fingers steepled and pressed to his chin. It almost looked as if he were praying, though she knew better of him. Muffy just looked down at Brain, her brow creased with concern. She lowered her head and whispered something to him, and when he looked up, she forced an encouraging smile. There was another whispered line, and then Muffy offered her fist. Brain smiled back and bumped his fist with hers, and they ricocheted off each other, fingers splayed.

"We're ready," Prunella said, sitting cross-legged on the floor once everything had been set up. "Come, complete the circle with me."

Brain and Muffy did as she asked and moved to join her, but not before Brain made a quick detour to his desk, where the white queen sat next to his computer monitor. He took it and handed it to Prunella as he and Muffy took a seat on the floor with her. She placed the queen in the center of the circle, then picked up the container of strawberries and passed them around. Brain took one and bit into it, while Muffy nibbled on hers timidly.

"We share our food with the spirits as an offering and ask that they commune with us."

She took a small strawberry for herself and popped the whole thing into her mouth while she poured the Darjeeling into the Thermos cap cup. She passed the cup around.

"Drink with us…"

Brain took a sip of the tea and made a pained pace. He passed the cup to Muffy who eyed the cap cup then Prunella before drinking from it herself. She handed the tea back to Prunella, and Prunella finished what was left before offering her hands to them. They were linked in a circle.

"Let us close our eyes… Spirits, we know you see us. Some of you may recognize our faces, recognize what is in our hearts and on our minds. Tonight, we ask that the spirit of Lydia Fox come forth and make herself known. Lydia, please let us be aware of your presence. I offer myself to you as a conduit. You may speak through me…"

Prunella cleared her mind and left herself open for reception, allowing calm to wash over her, and she waited. And waited. And waited.

"Again, we are here tonight to speak with the spirit of Lydia Fox. Lydia, you have reached out to us before. All are eager to hear from you again. If there is anything you wish to say, you may speak through me at any time."

Once again, Prunella left herself open and waited. The only thing she could hear was the sound of Brain breathing, which was heavy on the intake and shuddery on the way out. He gripped her hand tightly.

"It's okay," she murmured to the darkness, trying to assuage his apprehension. "It's fine. Sometimes it just takes a while…"

But she could feel her palms growing sweaty. She did not count the seconds but they remained in the circle for a long while. The floor was growing harder and more uncomfortable. Muffy jostled Prunella as she shifted her position slightly.

"Lydia Fox," Prunella said in her best attempt to drown her desperation with a confident tone, "someone very special has been waiting to hear from you. Please come forth and make your presence known."

Minutes passed.

_Speak to me… Speak to me… Please, Lydia, just give me something… _

"Lydia?"

Brain was speaking this time, and he sounded distraught.

"It's Alan," he whispered. "I love you. I'm sorry I never told you that, sorry I didn't say it _years_ ago. I'm sorry I wrecked your chess set. I'm sorry I tried to act like nothing mattered after you left. Please, say _something_."

It was as if a white-hot hand were squeezing Prunella's heart. The pain in his words was otherworldly, transcendent, and it became a part of her. It dawned on her just how all-consuming his grief was. Marina had sensed it: he was thoroughly in love with this girl and had never gotten over it. And Lydia was giving her nothing, no matter how hard she tried.

_You can still help him, though. Just give him a little something. Calm him down, ease his mind._

Lie to him.

_For the greater good. You'll make him feel better, and that's what matters._

Prunella ignored sniffles coming from Muffy's direction. She supposed she could do that. Just give him some vague imagery and a brief cryptic message to let him know that Lydia was at peace and that there were no hard feelings. Yeah, she could do that, totally. For the greater good.

"I'm… I'm getting something," Prunella said.

"Yeah?" said Brain eagerly, tearfully.

"I… I…"

Her tongue felt heavier than lead as hatred for herself crept in over what she was about to do. What a bizarre feeling that was. She fought to speak the words.

"I… I… I…can't do this. I'm sorry, but I can't."

Prunella opened her eyes. Brain stared back at her in disbelief, his eyes welling with tears.

"What do you mean you can't do it?" he said, sounding betrayed. "You did it the other night."

"I'm trying as hard as I can. It's just not working… I'm getting nothing. I'm sorry."

"You're obviously not trying hard enough. Let's go. We'll do it again."

He held out his hands, indicating they should reform the link. There was a crazed gleam in his eyes. Muffy looked at him, horrified.

"I said we'll do it again. Come on."

"It's not going to work."

"Come on, Prunella. It _has_ worked and it will work again. Let's go!"

"Brain—_Alan_, listen to me… I am a…a fake. I've always been a fake. I wanted to believe you so badly the other night. I want so much for this to be real. But never once have I actually made contact with a spirit, no matter how much I practiced or how hard I tried. It would seem the séance at Muffy's house was a string of coincidences and lucky guesses and that's all. I'm sorry I took advantage of you and caused you pain. But it's clear that I just can't help you. And I can't lie to you either. So now you know."

Alan shook his head.

"What do you want—money?" he said as he broke the circle and crawled toward her, sweeping the strawberries and the queen aside as he did so. "How much? I'll pay you."

"Alan, no!" Muffy cried. "You promised!"

Before Prunella realized what was happening, Alan had reached toward her and grabbed fistfuls of her blouse. He pulled her close and pleaded with her. Prunella grabbed his forearms and tried to free herself, but he was strong and it was hard to get a firm grip over the sliding fabric of his shirt. Her heart raced. Was this what fearing for your life was like?

"Just tell me how much!"

Muffy tackled Alan from behind, trying desperately to wrest his grip from her blouse.

"Alan, stop! Let go of her! Please! Please, don't do this! Think!"

"This was my last hope!" Alan sobbed as he at last let go of the blouse.

Once free, Prunella scrambled to her feet, fearing he might try for her again if she hung around to give him the chance.

"No, it isn't," Muffy said, still holding onto him.

"I'm scared, Muffy. I don't know what to do!"

"Yes, you do," Muffy said, trying to soothe him through her tears, "you just don't see it right now. Remember…remember the screw that rolled underneath your shelves? Right? Remember how you eventually figured out exactly what to do to get it back? And the key? Remember how all it needed was one tiny extra push to unlock it? You just needed to clear your head first before you figured it all out. You already know what to do about this because we've discussed it. You just can't see it now."

Prunella had no idea what Muffy was talking about, but it must have meant something to Alan, for he deflated just a little in her arms, his head bowed low.

"This feels so much bigger than me," he said, "like I can't do it alone."

"I'll help you," Muffy said. "Whatever you need. I promised I wouldn't leave you behind, and I meant it. Just, please…you have to let go. We'll get through it, I swear."

"I just miss her so much…"

"I know," she said, holding onto him even more tightly as he wept openly. "I'm so, so sorry…"

_What have I done?_

It was all Prunella could take. Her whole body was shaking. She stooped down and quickly snatched her bag and the Thermos from the floor, not caring to leave Alan and Muffy and the rest of her things behind. She needed to get out of here and fast. She bolted out of the room and down the stairs as fast as her wobbly legs would carry her. She stopped to compose herself once she made it out of the house, mostly because she did not think her heart could take it if she tried to run while she was this upset. Instead, she tried to concentrate on maintaining a steady pace as she continued toward home, bathed in streetlamp and moonlight, frequently wiping away tears that did not seem to stop.

_To be continued…_


	24. 26 Hours Until Monday

Alan's tears were long dried, but neither he nor Muffy had moved from his bedroom floor. He hugged one knee to his chest as he sat, his ruddy eyes staring, focused on nothing. Muffy's arm was still slung across his shoulder, and it was beginning to fall asleep. All but one of the candles had extinguished with the commotion they had caused, and strawberries lay scattered across the floor. A quick glance at Alan's bedside clock told her that it was just before ten, just as her Infinity chimed from within her handbag, which sat in a more comfortable spot atop Alan's bed. Stiffly, she unfurled herself from him and stood. Bailey had sent her a text.

**The hour is getting late, Miss Muffy.**

She knew what that meant. Bailey knew or suspected her parents would be back from the costume party shortly, and he was trying to usher her along so they could beat them back to the Crosswire estate. She looked at Alan, who still sat motionless, before sending her reply.

**Coming down. We need handkerchiefs, please.**

She crossed the room and switched on his overhead, then blew out the lone, still-burning candle before speaking softly to him.

"Get up."

Alan said nothing, did nothing.

"Come on," she persisted gently. "We need to move. We need to get this cleaned up and get out of here before it's too late."

"You should just leave me," Alan said, his voice low and hoarse.

"I already told you I won't be doing that," she said as she stooped to level her eyeline with his, "and I'm not breaking my promise."

"Maybe you should. Clearly, _my_ promise isn't worth much."

"It's not Monday yet, is it? There's still twenty-four hours for you to make good on it."

She offered her hand to him.

"Twenty-six hours, actually," he said, regarding her hand before taking it and allowing her to help him stand, "technically longer if you count the hours before my appointment."

"There's that nitpicking spirit. We need to hurry. Bailey is waiting."

Muffy grabbed her handbag and was thankful she had not switched to something smaller during the week. Alan picked up the queen first and put it back on his desk, and then he knelt to put the strawberries back into their container. Muffy collected the candles and shoved them, one by one, into her purse, knowing full well that the wax on one of them was still soft enough to rub off onto the supple leather interior. There went her favorite Olivier reversible, but she could hardly care at the moment.

The limo was back, parked in front of the Powers residence, and Bailey stood at the ready on the sidewalk next to it, holding two handkerchiefs, both freshly soaked with water. Her butler was unable to mask his concern. His expression wavered, as he must have gotten a better look at them in the light of the streetlamp.

"Are the two of you all right?" he said.

"We're fine," Muffy said to him, taking the handkerchiefs, and she knew her tone was not convincing.

"May I be of further assistance, Miss Muffy?"

"I'll take it from here, thank you."

After applying the handkerchief to his face and downing two bottles of grapefruit Perrier on the ride to the Crosswire estate, Alan's eyes were less red, and he seemed less lethargic. Still, he looked drained and remained mostly quiet, and so Muffy decided not to push things and told him to have a seat in the den while she set the scene for her parents' arrival. Much like Alan's parents, hers had expected them to hang around for the night under Bailey's supervision and watch movies. Bailey fetched popcorn and sodas for them while she set up a movie to play on the enormous flat screen. She was not big on horror. No one in the family was except for Chip, and he still had a collection of DVDs left behind in the den. She neither knew nor cared which one played, but she did not think that it was wise to choose one that had a lot of death or ghosts. With that in mind, she plucked _The Squirrels_ from the lot.

They were not very far into the movie when her parents came home. When she heard that her father had hired a driver for the evening, Muffy had known what to expect when they showed up at the end of the night. Her mother and father stumbled through the mansion and stopped by the den before going up to bed, her father dressed as Uncle Sam while her mother was Lady Liberty. It would seem they had sorted out their costume differences for this party, though their apparel hung a bit disheveled, and they had traded headpieces. Her mother wore Sam's star-spangled stovepipe, and her father donned Liberty's crown. It was unclear whether the mix-up had been unintentional or just a bit of fun. It must have been some party, for they were more than a little tipsy.

Her father had given Muffy and Alan a boisterous, "Hi-ya, kids—oops!" He made an embarrassed face as his glassy gaze came to light on Alan, who, unbeknownst to Muffy, sat at the end of the sectional sofa, sound asleep.

"Sorry," her father recovered, whispering loudly. "We'll just be going up, then. Goodnight, sweetums."

"Love you, dear," her mother said with a wave of her hand, which was clutching her pumps. "Don't stay up too late, okay?"

Once they were gone, Muffy scooted over to Alan, prepared to wake him gently, but he spoke as soon as she laid hands on his arm.

"I'm not asleep. I just didn't feel like talking to anyone."

She understood. It had been a smart move on his part.

"When do you think—" she began just as Alan's text alert sounded.

"It looks like Mom and Dad are leaving Erie as we speak," he said, once he had read the message. He rapidly typed his response as he explained, "I'm telling them to have a great night and that I will likely be in bed by the time they get home. I think it's better that way."

Once finished, he took an awkward pause and glanced around the den before, finally, "I'd better be off."

"We'd better be off," said Muffy, standing and retrieving the Infinity from the coffee table.

Alan did not look thrilled at the news.

"Didn't your mom tell you not to stay up late?"

"They'll both be out cold in, like, two minutes. They won't even know I'm gone."

"It's not necessary, Muffy."

"To me, it is."

Alan fell silent for most of the ride. Muffy worried about leaving him alone in this state. After a few minutes of dead air, she could take it no longer.

"Are you okay?"

"You know my okay-ness is in a constant state of flux…" he said dully. "Why are you looking at me like that? Sympathetic… I can't believe you aren't mad."

"I'm very mad. At Prunella."

"But not me?"

"What for?"

"For losing it?" he offered. "For making you go through all that trouble for nothing? For making you feel like you should be babysitting me? Any or all of those things."

Once again, the limo came to a stop in front of the Powers residence.

"Whatever," Muffy said. "I'm here because I want to be here. I should be mad at myself for being so clueless. If I could think of just one thing that would actually help you, I'd do it in a heartbeat, I swear."

Alan opened the door then stopped. "There might be something you _can_ do…"

"Really?" Muffy said, leaning forward eagerly. "Name it."

Alan got out and motioned for her to join him.

"Come up to my room for a couple of minutes."

"Um, what?"

Once more, she followed Alan to his room, where he took a book from a shelf. _Brief Answers to the Big Questions_ was its title, which did nothing to clear Muffy's confusion until he opened it. Tucked in the middle was a short stack of small, narrow-ruled pages, and from the look of the ragged edges, all had been torn from a different book. Alan picked up the stack and showed them to Muffy.

"These are from my pocket journal, everything I've written about Lydia since beginning my sessions with Dr. Hartmann-Krause. Your assessment was correct: I've been BS-ing my way through therapy. It's… _she_ is difficult to process. Always has been. That's why I quit therapy the first time. I preferred to hide and tinker with things I could fix. However, hiding is pointless because it's always with me."

He reached into his back pocket and took out what had to be the infamous pocket journal, mentioned a few times by Alan but never seen by Muffy until today. It was hardly longer than a drinks coaster, and its once-glossy black cover was now worn from travel and abuse.

"It doesn't matter where it's stowed away, _all of it_ is always with me, including _her_."

He flipped open the journal and stuffed the loose pages about Lydia in the middle before snapping it closed.

"She once joked that I was so stubborn it would be to my detriment one day… No more failed attempts at hiding. Here."

She was stunned to see that he was holding the pocket journal out to her.

"I don't understand, Alan."

"I want you to take it. If you would, please keep it safe until Monday afternoon and meet me at Dr. Hartmann-Krause's office with it."

"Do you even know what you're asking?" Muffy said. "This is your private…stuff, and you're just going to leave it unguarded? I could read everything."

"It's not _un_guarded. I'm terrified and exhausted and I know I need help, but I'm not sure how much I trust myself right now. However, I do trust you. Do what you want with it; just make sure it gets into my doctor's hands."

Muffy was on the verge of tears. As she took the journal out of his hands, she wanted to tell him how much his faith in her meant, but she decided to let it go for now. For now, she could just be proud of him.

"I will," she said, pulling Alan close and hugging him tightly before departing.

_To be continued…_


	25. The Closed Window

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: "The Music Man" was written by Meredith Wilson and Franklin Lacey. I own nothin'.

"Miss Marian," Buster said to Fern, acting out his lines as Professor Harold Hill, "you're late."

"But you said fifteen minutes," said Fern, acting out her lines as Marian.

It was a dark and cloudy Sunday afternoon. A cold snap had happened overnight with the possibility of snow flurries later on, the first of the year, but Fern and Buster were warm in the Walters's family dining room. Her mother had left over an hour ago to host an open house, while her father prepared for an upcoming business trip in his home office. That left the majority of the downstairs free for them to practice their lines for _The Music Man_ with little distraction. They were rehearsing the footbridge scene, a crucial part of the story. With no actual bridge at their disposal, Fern had suggested they take their marks between the sideboard and one side of the table, using the area as a spatial aid.

"Not that kind of late," Buster continued. "No, I meant that you're about…well, I'd say about twenty-six years late. It took you all this time to get to the footbridge with a fella."

Fern sidled up closer to him, pretending to look coy as she held onto the back of a chair, a stand-in for the footbridge railing.

"If you want to know the truth, it almost took longer."

"Oh?"

"Halfway here, I nearly turned back. I suppose I'm not the first to discover that it is easier to think clearly when not under the spell of your salesmanship."

"Oh, Miss Marian, now surely you don't think I've been trying to sell you anything."

"Not at all. You've given me something. That's why I decided to come."

"I don't recall giving you anything."

"Oh, yes, you have," she said, gazing into his eyes. "Something beautiful. That's why I came. And I'm glad, so very glad. Please don't be afraid that I'll expect too much more. One can't expect a travelling salesman to stay put. I know there have been many ports of call and there will be many more, but still, there is no reason not to be grateful for what you will have left behind. For me."

Buster blinked.

"Wow…" he said, this time as himself, breaking character to marvel at Fern. "You really are good."

She could not be annoyed at his lack of attention because he had sounded so sincere. She smiled in spite of herself, flattered.

"You think so?"

"Francine can say it's BS all she wants; Coach Sorrell made the right choice. You _are_ Marian. Even _I_ believe you're in love with Harold. You're gonna break a leg, I just know it."

"You and everyone else, it seems," she said with a small laugh, watching the now well-trained Buster return to his mark.

She could not help but notice Buster's face fall as he stepped back into place. It was not a frown, but the look of someone lost in thought. Yet again.

_Maybe today isn't a good day to ask._

She could tell that Buster had been preoccupied with something from the moment he walked through her door this afternoon, even if they did have the house to themselves, something would not leave him alone.

_Look at me, trying to put it off. If I can sneak into an abandoned theme park, I can ask a boy to the Autumn Ball. I can do this. I just need to find my window. Engage him. _

That meant more conversation. Instead of leaving the room to take her mark, she took a step toward him to narrow the distance.

"You know…" she said, "a part of me can't believe I ever tried to get out of this role. I was so wrapped up in my newest story I didn't want to leave it, not even for a minute. But it has been quite fun, Binky's tirades aside."

Buster broke away from whatever was occupying his mind long enough to focus on her.

"Oh, yeah, you mentioned a new story. What's it about?"

"I don't want to say too much right now, mostly because it keeps changing, but it involves urban exploration and murder."

"Cool… Cool. So how many funeral homes have you sneaked around for this one?"

"Exactly zero, but I have been doing practical research."

Fern told Buster about her trip to Wonderworld and sneaking into Kiddie Cove. He was surprised to hear of its existence ("I can't believe a creepy place like that was in our own backyard and we never knew it."). He listened to her, distractedly as his eyes kept darting away, while she described her trip and the Cove in extensive detail.

"And you did all that for your story, huh?"

"Yes. I thought my methods were unorthodox, too, until I read _Storyteller's Journey_, that is," she said, referring to the Stephanie Bachman book Buster had given her. "I'm on my second read, by the way. It turns out Bachman did quite a bit of practical research herself when she first started out. That's how she became a motorcycle enthusiast, while she was drafting _Bangor Brick_. She's done a lot of things for her stories like skydiving, searching for sunken treasure, and she even constructed her own moonshine still and secretly sold the alcohol to her friends, just to get a feel for what it was like. Her story has been really inspiring. And remember how, in his letter, Ernesto Del Rey told me that I should apply life experience to my craft? It's as if this is all one big glorious sign that I'm on the right track, that I should keep doing what I'm doing."

"Awesome," said Buster, "as long as you stick with the urban exploration part of your story and not the murder part."

"There are lines even I must draw. So, urban exploration it is. But I'm not stopping at Kiddie Cove. That was just a warm-up act. There are loads of other abandoned places around Elwood City I feel are worth checking out."

"Oh, yeah? Like where?"

"Ever heard of Raccoon Hill?"

Buster shook his head.

"The _proper_ name for it is Van Houten Farms. It was one of the first farms established in Elwood City, even before Elwood City officially became Elwood City, and it was chiefly responsible for the strawberry boom that gave our town its reputation."

"'The City of the Strawberries'," Buster said after a moment's thought.

"Precisely. The farm became defunct in the late 1970s, and the farmhouse has just been sitting there ever since, perched on top of Raccoon Hill with all its land surrounded by miles of dense woods and the road leading to it closed off to the public."

"Ooh—the big, white 'road closed' sign on the other side of town? I've seen it. So that's where that road leads?"

Fern nodded. "That's the big score, my Everest. There's an abandoned farmhouse scene in _Around the Dark Corner_—my new story, you see—and it's a pretty big deal. If I could make it to Van Houten Farms and get a good look at it, capture the experience of what it's like to trek through the woods and see the farmland in all its desolate glory, I know I'll be able to make my scene much, much better."

"You're actually going up there, up…Raccoon Hill?"

"I want to. I really, really do, but…to be honest, I'm a little intimidated. It's kind of out in the middle of nowhere. Travelling up the main road would be risky—someone could easily spot me and stop me. Or worse. That leaves me with accessing the farm the long way around, and that means hiking through the woods and up the far side of Raccoon Hill, which would be unknown territory. It could even be treacherous."

"I'll say."

"_But_…I think I've found my sweet spot, the route where the farm and civilization have the shortest distance between them, and you'll never guess where the trail lets out."

She had not expected Buster to know the answer, but she had expected him to at least fire back a one-liner. Instead, he shrugged.

"Near the field behind _Mill Creek Middle_."

"No kidding?" Buster said. "That must be a huge plot of land. How did you find that out?"

"Google Earth is your friend, my friend. I found Van Houten Farms and checked out the surrounding area, and it seemed like MCM was incredibly close by. I calculated the distance, and it's a little over three-quarters of one mile, though it is a wooded area and a lot of the journey is uphill. Not exactly a walk in the park."

_There's finding a window, and there's stalling. Hurry up and ask him._

Fern swallowed.

"Um, can I ask you something, Buster?"

"You want me to trek up Raccoon Hill with you?" he said.

"Yes," she answered, secretly horrified that she had bailed last minute. "Yes, that's exactly it."

_What is wrong with you?_

She had originally planned to go to Van Houten Farms on her own, just as she had traveled to other places in her research. The idea of bringing someone along on something so personal would had been off-putting before. But if Buster were genuinely interested, perhaps an exception could be made.

"Wow, Fern, I can't believe you'd want me involved. I've never gone urban exploring before. Are you sure I wouldn't just slow you down?"

"Quite the contrary, she said. There's no one I'd rather have by my side. Of course, you don't have to if you don't want to."

"Yeah, no. It sounds cool. I'll just have to make sure I'm…free. Do you have a day in mind?"

He looked so uncertain, nervous. He was actually fidgeting with his hands. This was a far cry from the jovial Buster from earlier this week. As much as she wanted to ask him to the dance, as much as she wanted to pep talk herself into staying in the game until the thing was done, she could not do it without getting to the bottom of what was bothering him. It just did not feel right.

"Is everything okay?" she said to him. "You're miles away, and you're nowhere near as quippy as you usually are. I feel like I've cracked more jokes than you have today."

Buster shrugged. "I'm fine. It's just…yesterday was a weird day."

Had something happened when Buster met up with is father? Or maybe…

"Oh," Fern said, lowering her voice. "Is it your parents? Is counselling not going well, or—"

"No. Mom and Dad are great. A little private about what _happens_ in counselling, but great. I'm sorry—I know I've been distracted. I know how important the play is to you, and I'm getting into it, too, I swear… And I love hearing about your stories… Something really unexpected happened, and I can't stop thinking about it."

"The good kind of unexpected?" she said carefully, genuinely hoping that it was.

"Uh, maybe?" he said, holding back a sheepish smile. "I'm not really sure."

If she was not mistaken, he was blushing, not something she was accustomed to seeing from him.

"Well, you've got me on tenterhooks now, Buster," she said. "What is it?"

He took a deep breath.

"Okay… Ladonna stabbed you in the heart yesterday evening."

"Huh?" Fern said, trying to disguise her gasp.

There was a low-level buzzing in her brain, her pulse thudded in her ears, and it was hard to collect her thoughts. Certainly, she had misheard Buster. What had he actually said?

_He said Ladonna kissed him yesterday evening, you dolt._

He stood there, looking at her expectantly, and here she was gaping at him like a fish.

"Yeah, I'm just as surprised as you are," he said. "Someone actually kissed _me_. Pretty unbelievable, right? Fern?"

"I, um…don't understand. You said you were going to your dad's work."

"Oh, I'll back up. I invited Ladonna to come along. See, she's never traveled by plane before, and since she gets excited over, well, _everything_, I thought she might enjoy…"

_No. No…_

This was not what she had meant. Of course, she had been confused as to how a day with his father somehow ended with Ladonna Compson's lips, but she did not wish to hear Buster recount the events in detail. She would rather read Nicholas Sparks, and she hated Nicholas Sparks.

_Just shut up, please._

As if hearing her thoughts, Buster stopped.

"I'm rambling," he said. "Anyway, long story short, she planted one on me at the end of the day. Just…boom."

"Boom?"

She wanted him out of her house. She could hear Sue Ellen's speech from parents' night:

"_But if you are interested in him, maybe don't do silly things like push him away."_

She needed to get away from Buster before she lost it. Through the fog in her brain, she had presence of mind to let her improv skills take over.

"Yeah. Boom. And I still don't know what—"

"Hang on," she said, holding up a finger. "I think I heard my phone ringing."

"I didn't hear anything," Buster said, confused and looking around for a source of noise.

"Just a sec…"

Fern darted into the living room to pick up her phone from one of the end tables and shot a quick text to Sue Ellen.

**Calling now. Play along.**

"It was Sue Ellen," she said upon returning to the dining room, "but I didn't make it in time. She knew I was busy today. I doubt she would call unless it was important. I'd better call her back."

She waited for Sue Ellen to pick up while Buster watched her. This had not been the first time she had pulled this trick, which she had mostly employed to avoid talking to her mother.

"Hello," Sue Ellen said on the other line, sounding as if she knew what to expect.

"Sue Ellen?" said Fern. "Yeah, hi. I just missed your call. What's going on?"

She held a long pause while Sue Ellen said nothing on the other line.

"Oh… Oh, yeah? Really? Sure, I can help… No, really, it's no bother. I'll be over soon… Yes… No problem."

Sue Ellen had barely gotten out a dull, "Bye, Fern". Fern was already hanging up.

"So, change of plans," she said quickly. "I need to get to Sue Ellen's. We'll do this some other time, okay? Okay."

She left the dining room to retrieve her coat from the coatrack and grabbed Buster's things while she was there. Buster followed her.

"Is something wrong?"

"No, no. She just needs a little help with a…a thing."

She flung Buster's coat and beanie in his direction. He reflexively caught them, looking back at her as she shoved her arm into a sleeve.

"Can I help?"

"No! No… It's…girl stuff. You wouldn't understand. No offense."

"None taken. You're probably right."

She popped her collar to protect herself against the cold. There was no time to locate her scarf or gloves, so this would have to do, at least until Buster was well away from her house.

"Anyway, I have to leave now. I'll get there quicker if I take a shortcut. You can see yourself out, right? Good."

Fern was out the door in two seconds, and then she left in the direction she normally would have taken to go to Sue Ellen's house, starting off at a jog. Instead of making a left at the corner, she continued straight as soon as traffic was clear, only to detour off the sidewalk a few paces after crossing the street. She cut through a thicket on a highly-worn trail forged by others to avoid going the long way around, and she came out at Puffer's Pond.

She half expected at least one stubborn soul to be out here on this gray, cold day, fishing in the pond with the threat of snow looming over him, but there was no one, thank God. There was birdsong and the occasional rustle of a flighty chipmunk, signs of her only companions. She focused on the steam rising off the still water and the sound of her breath slowing, but it did nothing to calm her.

_Face it, you didn't come here to be calm anyway._

Though her face was cold, she was still hot under the collar. Her eyes stung. Her nose stung. Sure that she was now completely alone with no one to witness, Fern doubled over, and she began to cry.

_To be continued… _


	26. It's Time

After Fern took off, Buster had no idea what to do with himself. His mother was out shopping today, and apart from rehearsing with Fern, the rest of his afternoon was wide open. His mother had tasked him with putting a lasagna, another one of her masterful freezer meals, into the oven and making a salad, but he would not have to do that until five o'clock. Helping with meals had been his idea when he realized just how busy his mother was, that she was particularly tired on counselling days, and that, so far, he had done nothing to help make things easier for her. She had looked touched when he made the suggestion, and he was happy he had. With that one chore in mind, he thought he might swing by Arthur's house first and hang out for a while. However, instead of stopping at the Read residence, his feet carried him straight past it, to the fourth house down.

He had tried to talk to his father about the kiss Ladonna had given him. In the minutes that followed their moment on her front porch, it had been hard to express to him how much his head was reeling from it, to explain exactly what the confusing mixture of feelings inside him was like. How could he be sure of what he felt if he was not a hundred percent on what Ladonna felt? Just because a peck on his cheek made his guts all fluttery, that did not mean she had meant for it to. Did it? It was hard to accept his feelings without knowing where she stood. She was a close friend. She could be physically affectionate with all her friends, and even playfully flirty to a certain extent with some of them. Had she not referred to Alan as "heartbreaker" in the Sugar Bowl not long ago? She had not meant anything by it, just as he meant nothing by all the pestering he dealt to Francine. He was often wrong about a lot of things. What if he were wrong now and just reading way too much into it? Fern was so good at decoding people, including perfect strangers. Today, as he had begun to open up to her about yesterday, he secretly hoped she would be able to provide him with some insight, and then maybe he would have figured out how to proceed. But Fern had left for Sue Ellen's, and he was still confused.

_It's a fact: I can't figure out what goes on inside the minds of girls. Better get it over with and find out straight from the horse's mouth._

The front door opened before he could knock. Ladonna stuck her head out, eyes gazing upward as if to look to the sky, only to be startled by his presence. The door swung open as she jumped back, and she quickly recovered with a broad grin.

"Buster Baxter…" she drawled.

There went his words again. She was not saying much either.

"Hi," he offered.

"Hi… Is it snowin' yet? That's why I came out. I've been lookin' for it since mornin', but so far, nothin'."

"You know it's not going to be a lot of snow, right?"

"I know. I don't care. I just wanna be out here when it happens."

"Are ya gonna kiss him again?" said a familiar, twangy voice.

The bill of a worn red baseball cap came into view over Ladonna's shoulder. Bud had been quiet while sneaking up behind his sister. At his words, Ladonna's eyes widened, and she turned to him.

"How do ya even know about that?" she said to him, regarding her brother with a look that was equal parts incredulous and impressed. There was a trace of pink in her cheeks now that possibly had nothing to do with the cold air she was letting in.

"I spied on ya when ya came home yesterday," Bud said as if the answer should be obvious. "Did ya forget we've got two great big ol' windahs on each side of the front door," he said, pointing to one of them, "or did all that smoochin' just go to your brain?"

Her cheeks were definitely getting redder, and Bud was definitely enjoying himself.

"So, are ya gonna kiss? If ya are, I'll have to tell Dad. He said no datin' until you're thirty."

"He was just _joking_, Bud," she said. "I'm pretty sure."

With haste, Ladonna retrieved her coat, scarf, and beanie from the rack next to the door.

"C'mon," she said to Buster as she stepped outside. "Let's take a walk. That way we can have a little more privacy."

"To kiss," Bud added.

"Hush!" Ladonna said, shutting the door in his face.

"Little brothers…" she said with a shake of her head as she donned her outerwear.

"I wouldn't know," Buster said.

Buster knew Ladonna thought the world of Bud, but even she was probably not immune to the annoyances younger siblings were fabled to cause.

"It's all in good fun," she said resignedly, "but sometimes he's so aggravatin' I could spit. Let's go 'round the block, away from pryin' eyes."

They took a right onto the sidewalk. A few moments passed before Buster got up the nerve.

"So, speaking of, you know, of the…you know…" he said.

"Oh, I know… So?"

"So what?"

"Ya began the conversation with 'speaking of'. That usually means there's a follow-up to it, goober. _So_, what is it.?"

"Right, right…"

"You've got questions?"

"Boy, do I, just as soon as I remember what they are."

"Did I really scramble your brains that badly?"

"They are definitely scrambled. Scrambled, scattered, smothered, covered and—wait, that's _hash browns_, not eggs. See what I mean?"

Ladonna giggled.

"I have to know," he said. "How real was that? You know, the kiss? It's like I think you might have meant it, but a part of me thinks my imagination was running away with me, like it usually does."

"Oh, no, I was definitely puttin' the moves on ya," she said.

"But, why?"

"I don't know why. I like ya? I think I _like_ like ya, and I've _like_ liked ya for a while. I just didn't know if I should say anything 'cause we're friends. But I was in such a good mood yesterday, and I thought, 'Aw, what the heck, I'll throw it at the wall and see if it sticks.' Did it?"

"Stick?" Buster said. "Yeah. I think it stuck… But this feels weird. It's not just me, right? It's _weird_. Uh, not that you're weird. _I'm_ weird. It's just—"

She took his hand and laced her fingers with his. And there was that fluttery-gut feeling again.

"It does feel weird," she said. "'Cause it is. And new, and scary… But it also feels kinda nice, too, don'tcha think?"

Buster nodded. "That's exactly what it feels like."

They walked hand in hand as the first snowflakes of the year began to fall. Buster lost track of time, but it must have been more than a couple of minutes of silent travel while Ladonna enjoyed the weather. Finally, she spoke.

"You wanna go to the tree house, watch the snow, and talk?"

"As long as I can be home by five," said Buster, "I'll go anywhere you want."

* * *

"What do you mean he has a girlfriend?" Bitzi sputtered.

She sat in the passenger seat of the U-Haul rental Bo had picked up for the afternoon. They had made small talk as he drove toward their destination, trying to maneuver the large and unfamiliar vehicle through the streets of downtown Elwood City as best he could. From the moment Bo had picked Bitzi up near the _Times_ building, they had made a valiant effort to chat about the crazy weather, their jobs, and whether Buster had enjoyed himself the day before, but it was hard to sustain the conversation for long without both of them falling silent on this somber day. Bo supposed that was to be expected, considering the task that was ahead of them. He desperately wanted to know her thoughts about a certain subject, however, so he attempted to open a dialogue once more with, "So, Buster has a girlfriend now, huh?"

"Why are you _laughing_?" she said.

"Sorry, I thought you knew," he said, choking on his chuckles. "You're Supermom—you usually know everything, so I definitely wasn't expecting that reaction."

"Because he used to tell me everything. Is he going to be secretive about every single thing he does from here on out?"

"He _is_ a teenager," Bo said. "To be fair, I don't think even he knew, not until Ladonna kissed him on the cheek yesterday. She kind of blew his mind."

"Ladonna…" she said. "A girl kissed my little baby boy Boo-Boo? How could this happen?"

"It's puberty, Bitz," he said, using the same words she had said to him not long ago, "not sorcery."

She was thoughtful for a moment.

"Did he talk to you about it, say anything?"

"Uh, not much. I asked him how he felt, and he said he wasn't sure. In total denial throughout dinner. He said he likes her for a lot of different reasons, but he didn't think the kiss could have been a real romantic gesture. I told him it seemed pretty real to me. Then he asked me what he should do about it. Well, that's not my decision to make, so I told him to think about it and listen to his heart but also to his gut, that sometimes the two don't always agree, but sometimes they do. He was pretty quiet after that… Did I do it wrong?"

"That's…pretty solid advice, actually."

"You okay?"

"Yeah… I'm just absorbing it. Big changes… They come fast sometimes, even when you know they're inevitable."

"Maybe I shouldn't have brought this up," he said, "today of all days."

"No, I'm glad you told me. And I'm glad you got to have that experience, share that talk with him."

"So am I… Well, here we are," he said, and the heavy shift in his tone was not lost on him.

They were stopped outside the main gate of Superior Storage. Bitzi had come to the conclusion that holding onto all of Byron's things was far from healthy and that perhaps it was time to finally clear the storage unit and donate them, give them new life elsewhere. Of course, Dr. Bernice Chen, their grief counsellor, had suggested that she need not purge all of their son's things, and that keeping one small item to remember him by was perfectly acceptable, should she feel so inclined. Bo was supportive of all these ideas, and he offered to help Bitzi through every step of the process, just as long as she wanted him there.

"He's your son, too," Bitzi said quietly during their session, sitting on Dr. Chen's sofa, hands folded in her lap. "Of course I want you there."

The U-Haul rolled to a stop outside unit BB-22, just as the snow began to fall. Bo remembered it had snowed the day he brought Byron's things here nearly eleven years ago, on a November day much like this one. It was akin to reliving the moment all over again. He had been hoping not to become too emotional; he would rather remain strong for his ex. However, it did not feel like the odds would be in his favor. Maybe they just needed to be as strong as they could be for each other, and that was the best for which they could hope.

Bo waited on Bitzi as she fished around in her purse, at last withdrawing a ring holding various keys, a silver carabiner, and a red plastic key charm baring the embossed white Superior Storage logo. She paused and looked at him, gripping the door handle. It would seem neither wanted to be first out of the vehicle. They nodded at each other, then exited in an almost synchronized fashion. Bitzi unlocked the unit, tossed the key and the lock to one side, and together, she and Bo rolled back the white metal door of the locker. Bitzi took a step back, glancing over its contents, her hands clasped under her chin. Moments later she was weeping, which, in turn, made Bo weep. Instinctively, he enveloped her in an embrace and whispered to her.

"Remember, Bitz, I'm with you every step, but if you're not ready, you're not ready. If you feel like you need to stop, just say so. We'll put it all back and try again later."

"Thank you," she said, her tearful voice muffled by his thick jacket.

She pulled away and looked into the locker once more. Her watery eyes flitted over the white baby furniture, the teddy bear decorations, and various odds and ends as if she were somehow documenting each piece, taking snapshots with her mind. Then she nodded, as if answering a question she had silently asked herself.

"It's time," she told him. "It's time."

_To be continued…_


	27. Arrangements

It was quiet in the lobby of Dr. Paula's office. Rather than meeting him here and delivering the pocket journal to his therapist, Muffy had offered to give Alan a ride to his appointment Monday afternoon, and he had taken her up on it. The short trip had mostly been silent while each concentrated on their respective bottles of sparkling water. Between sips, Alan had taken deep breaths to help calm his nerves. He became aware of how loud his breathing was, and he made an effort to control it after Muffy gave him more than a few concerned side glances. She clutched her handbag in her lap, her hand clamped over the opening as if she feared its contents would spill. That must have been the location of his pocket journal. If she had read it, she said nothing about it. Perhaps that was why she was being so quiet.

They had arrived ten minutes early and entered the mental health center after the patient ahead of Alan cleared the building. That was the detail he disliked about his hour-long therapy sessions: they did not technically last a full hour but rather fifty minutes. Some days, sessions seemed far too short, as if he had only scratched the surface of what was on his mind. Today? He did not think he would be able to unload everything if he were given a hundred minutes. He hoped words would not fail him during this brief span of time, and he hoped Dr. Paula would take notes faster than she had ever taken them before. Mostly, however, he hoped he had the courage to say everything he needed to say.

They remained silent as they waited, sitting awkwardly next to each other while serene instrumental music came through the overhead speakers at an extremely low volume. Julie, Dr. Paula's twenty-something-year-old receptionist, clacked away at her computer keyboard and answered her phone headset in a calm and pleasant voice barely above a whisper. Alan fell back on his standard nervous thinking pose, elbows to knees, fingers steepled, staring ahead. He was breathing again, deeply, loudly, and both he and Muffy took notice.

"How did it go?" Muffy said, and it seemed as if she were relieved to find something to talk about. "With your parents and the Gardens? Did they at least have a good time Saturday night?"

It was difficult not to spare a chuckle for this. Muffy had definitely known what she was doing when she tempted his father with the Splendor of Light tickets and the promise of a wonderful romantic experience.

"They were playing footsie under the breakfast table when I came down yesterday morning," Alan said, still staring at the wall, though he felt himself suppress a smile, "so I should think the night was a complete success."

At this, Julie's gaze shifted in their direction for a moment, and she inclined her head ever so slightly, as if this were the most interesting news she had heard all day and she was curious to hear more.

"Aww," said Muffy. "Good for them."

The door to Dr. Paula's office opened, and his therapist appeared in the frame.

"Good afternoon, Alan," she said, pausing when her eyes fell on Muffy at his side. "Ah, hello."

Muffy drew the pocket journal from her bag as she hopped up from her seat.

"Hi, Dr. Hartmann-Krause. I'm Muffy," she said, crossing the room, "and I have something for you."

* * *

"The good news is you're not haunted," said Dr. Paula, looking up from her padfolio, where she had no doubt scribbled copious notes at lightning speed. She regarded Alan with a kind smile.

The Lydia pages were scattered in Alan's lap and across the sofa cushion next to him. To his astonishment, he had not cried that much, nowhere near what he had anticipated. Perhaps that was simply because there had been no time to break for tissues. He had carried on, one page after another, reading them aloud, revealing all the thoughts he had hidden away for weeks, for years, all the things he should have addressed a long time ago. He had not stopped there. He told Dr. Paula about his nightmares, about the anomalous coincidences between real life and Prunella's predictions, how silly the second séance and his temporary faith in the supernatural made him feel in hindsight, how unstable he felt for losing control Saturday night. He was certain he would shed plenty of tears once they delved deeply into these issues. For now, he needed to plow through them and make sure they were all out in the open. Surely, his fifty minutes were almost up.

"I realize that now, Doctor," Alan said, feeling tired from all the talking he had done. "What _am_ I?"

"Besides a young man trying very hard to come to terms with his feelings? I'd say what we have here is a bit of complicated grief, and it happens to way more people than you might think, even to the highly intelligent, such as yourself."

Perhaps she had known he was about to counter with his classic "I thought I was smarter than that" argument and chose to head him off before he could begin.

"Your dreams, your fears, your guilt, and your desire to communicate with Lydia—all commonly associated with complicated grief, but nothing we can't work through."

"I've been afraid to work through it," Alan admitted. "I feel as if I'm constantly torn. I want to be okay with her absence, but I don't want to forget her. I want to be able to remember the good times, but I don't want her to haunt my thoughts. I want to accept her death, but I dread the pain drudging everything up will cause. On the other hand…I never really stopped being in pain, so I don't know what I'm so afraid of. It feels like too much, an all-consuming, confusing cycle. I know what it's like to drown, and this feels very similar."

"This is common," Dr. Paula said again, "which is a good thing because that means it's treatable. Working through something like this is never easy. It requires you to show up and talk about it, but it can be done. I'm going to do everything I can for you; all I ask of you is that you show up and tell me exactly what you're feeling. Stick with your journal, remember your breathing exercises, and try to relax. Also, I know you're not a fan of the idea, but I want you to keep in mind that medication is always an option."

Alan had resisted medication in the past. It felt like cheating. How weak was he if he had to rely on chemicals to get him through the day? Of course, he knew that was a dumb notion. Sometimes people had imbalances, and said imbalances required corrective medication to aid regulation. There should be no shame in it. However, Alan's feelings often did not care about facts, another instance of his anxiety turning him into his own worst enemy. But what was one to do when one felt as exhausted and defeated as he felt right now? Perhaps now it was finally time to fight the enemy.

"I want to change," he said. "Is it okay if I talk with my parents about medication and get back to you?"

Fleetingly, Dr. Paula looked surprised, but she was back to her pleasant expression in no time.

"It's more than okay. In fact, that's exactly what you'll need to do should you decide to pursue it."

"I will," Alan said. "How much time do we have left?"

Dr. Paula checked her watch. "Nine minutes."

"Good. I have an idea, something I'm seriously considering, but I don't know if it's a good one. I know you're not allowed to tell me what to do, but, in your professional opinion, I'd like to know if it might be a sound coping mechanism."

Dr. Paula leaned forward in her chair, curious.

"No problem," she said. "Tell me all about it."

* * *

When Alan left Dr. Hartmann-Krause's office, the limo was still parked across the street near the hobby shop. Muffy stood up from a bench near the mental health center, phone in hand, and she hurried over, waving to get his attention.

"You didn't have to wait on me," he said once she had met up with him.

She had done her part, and that was all he had asked of her. As far as he was concerned, Bailey could have left his bike locked outside the hobby shop, and she was free to go about her day.

"I know," she said. "I wanted to treat you to dinner—anything you want from the Sugar Bowl. How does a Bubsy with extra cheese sound? Oh, and a malt?"

It sounded good, but Alan tried to protest.

"You don't have to—"

"And a big pile of salty, greasy fries."

"Make it sweet potato fries, and you've got yourself a deal."

Muffy made a face.

"Okay, sure. Whatever you want."

The two crossed the street, heading back toward the limo.

"Alan," she said, "I want you to know that I didn't read it. Don't get me wrong, I wanted to. Oh my god, I wanted to so much, but I didn't."

"You could have, you know," he said.

"I figured, or else you probably wouldn't have given it to me. I mean, I didn't know for sure, but I kind of guessed that was the case… But still, when I thought about going through with it, it made me feel icky, like it wasn't my business. So..."

He nodded to let her know he understood what she meant.

"Besides," she said, "I was hoping that, since you feel so free to converse, you'd maybe tell me yourself someday."

"Maybe I will," he said. "Honestly, I admire your restraint, your ability to resist asking me a hundred questions."

"I _do_ have a hundred questions."

"You just want to know if we kissed."

"Not _just_ that," she said in mock defense. "And I'm _positive_ you two kissed. The question is: Did you only goldfish it, or did you ever…_parlez-vous français_?"

His cheeks grew hot when he put together what she meant. He huffed a short, nervous laugh.

"Okay, now _that's_ none of your business," he said, not meeting her eyes.

There was a smile in Muffy's voice.

"Aww… Good for you," she said, nudging him with her elbow.

The Sugar Bowl had been caught in the odd limbo between post-lunch lull and late afternoon rush when they had stepped in, but business was steadily picking up. Alan and Muffy had managed to take a booth against the back wall before other patrons began filing in. Alan was thankful for the increase in ambient noise around them, and he was thankful Muffy had chosen to stick around after his session. It made her more accessible, and it would be easier to ask her an important question, though he was still nervous about it. Across the table loaded with food and milkshakes, Muffy sat ignoring the grilled chicken sandwich she had ordered upon changing her mind last minute. She was busy texting a long message to someone, while Alan lazily dragged a sweet potato fry through the dollop of ketchup on his plate, watching her. He had wolfed down most of his Bubsy Burger. Nerves over his impending visit with Dr. Paula had gotten the better of him today, and this was the first substantial meal he had been able to eat. It tasted exceptionally delicious, but now he was preoccupied with how he should broach the subject.

"Sorry," she said, placing her phone back into her handbag. "That was Chip. He's so sweet, checking in on me to make sure I'm okay. He said that, even though we couldn't be together on our usual day, he was still thinking about me. He also asked me to wish him luck—he's trying to make a vegan cassoulet for Catherine. She's coming over to his place for dinner, so I doubt he'll be thinking about me for very much longer." She sighed. "I'm happy for him, but I'm sad there's a part of our life that's just gone forever."

"Give it time," Alan said. "Maybe all of you will find balance."

"Don't you sound optimistic."

"I'm _trying_ to be…" Alan lowered his voice. "I need to ask you something, Muffy, but I don't really know how."

"Just ask?" she said.

"I talked to…my friend Paula today about how I think I made a mistake in not attending Lydia's funeral. At the time I didn't see the point, enduring the service, confronting the fact that she was gone, and getting upset all over again in front of everyone. Now I wonder if perhaps that _was_ the point, confronting it, finalizing it. I spoke to her hours before it happened, so to wake up the next day and discover that she was gone… It was like she had vanished, absconded from Elwood City, not like she had died. I didn't go to her funeral, I never visited her grave, I refused to talk about it, and I think it only contributed to that feeling. Of course, I knew she was dead, factually. That's not what I'm saying at all, but…it still felt as if she were out there somewhere, and I just couldn't see or hear her. Is it any wonder I forgot myself and became so desperate to speak with her again?"

Muffy must have known his question was a rhetorical one, for she did not try to answer. She sat in the booth, arms folded atop the table, listening intently and regarding him with a sympathetic frown.

"So, I was thinking…instead of chasing a ghost, I should take the initiative to finalize it. I need to visit her grave, but I'm afraid."

"You want me to go with you," Muffy said, knowing precisely what he was about to say next.

"It's a strange request, I know."

"When?"

"And you shouldn't feel obligated—"

"Alan. _When?_ How about Saturday?" she offered when he took too long to answer.

"That's…Halloween. The anniversary."

"Which makes it kind of appropriate, doesn't it? I mean, you never experienced the funeral, so…"

In a way, it made sense. This might be the closest he would ever get to mourning in that particular way. Perhaps it was better to strike while the proverbial iron was hot, before he managed to talk himself out of it and attempt to hide once more. And Muffy was willing to go…

"But doesn't the _Deadlight_ movie open Friday? You've been looking forward to it for ages. You vowed to watch it five times opening weekend. You said it so often, even I was able to commit it to memory, and you know how infrequently I've been around."

"Six times," Muffy said. "And I never thought I'd say this, but _Deadlight_ can wait. But it's up to you."

Alan thought about it for a long moment, then nodded. "The sooner, the better."

Muffy reached across the table and solemnly offered her fist to him.

"Saturday it is, then."

_To be continued…_


	28. The Anniversary

"I think I tied my tie too tightly," Alan said upon exiting the limo.

It was Halloween afternoon, and the weather had never felt more appropriate. The sky was a solid, never-ending blanket of clouds the color of steel. The air was cold and still save for an errant breeze that occasionally blew past. It was also the second anniversary of Lydia's death, and the limo sat parked outside the Elwood City Cemetery, not far from the main gate. Alan paused to fidget with the tie that matched the black suit he wore. It had been fine when he left home, but now it felt constricting. Muffy had suggested they come here dressed for a funeral.

"It's not _pointless_," she had explained when he protested. "How you dress affects you, whether you realize it or not. I'm not trying to be morbid or anything. I'm just saying there's a difference between showing up in jeans and sneakers and actually dressing for the occasion. The more official you make it, the more official it might _feel_. I don't want you to have any regrets."

Muffy stepped out of the limo and was quick to don her fitted, expensive-looking peacoat, which matched the clouds above them perfectly. She had not worn black today. Alan was not sure she owned any black clothing. Instead she had worn a calf-length dress in an inky-dark shade of eggplant purple, which was appropriate enough for mourning, he supposed.

"Let me see," Muffy said, sliding her thumb between his tie and shirt collar, checking the knot herself. "Nah, there's plenty of room. You're good. Are you ready?"

Alan inhaled deeply. "No, but let's do this."

The front passenger window rolled down as Muffy motioned with her hand. She reached in and withdrew a stunning bouquet, a mixture of white roses and calla lilies. She held them out to him, on the defense before he could even open his mouth.

"I know you said no flowers, but I got some, just in case. I didn't want you to have any—"

"Regrets…" Alan conceded. The flowers really were beautiful, and he was somewhat glad Muffy had not listened to him. "Thank you," he said, taking them.

They had managed only a few steps down the sidewalk when Alan's gaze was drawn to three familiar people exiting the cemetery gate, halting him in his tracks. Mr. and Mrs. Fox each held one of Brandon's hands as the boy, who was surely three years old by now, skipped and toddled along between them. Alan seized Muffy's arm to stop her.

"What?" she said, only to be shushed by him.

"Ahead. Those are Lydia's parents," he hissed. "We' have to turn back until they leave."

He backed up, towing her along, hoping they could make it back inside the limo before they noticed him. Muffy continued to chatter, albeit quietly.

"But why do you—"

"Dammit," he muttered, letting go of Muffy in defeat.

They had been spotted. Lydia's father was pointing in their direction, while her mother waved at him.

"I don't want to do this," he said quietly after blowing out a frustrated sigh. He weakly waved back in spite of the anxious feeling that rose in his chest. "I do not want to do this."

Muffy placed a bracing hand on his back and said. "Talk to them. It's all right. Just breathe…"

"Hi, Alan," said Lydia's mother once she and her family were closer.

"Hello, Mrs. Fox, Mr. Fox. Hi, Brandon."

_What do I say now?_

"Hi," said Muffy, offering her hand, "I'm Muffy."

"Right!" said Alan. "Right. Excuse me. This is my friend, Muffy Crosswire."

They shook hands and exchanged pleasantries.

"What beautiful flowers," Mrs. Fox marveled, taking in the bouquet.

"I selected them," Muffy said proudly.

"We just left a jack-o'-lantern for Lydia," said Mrs. Fox with a sad smile, "just like last year. It's sort of becoming a tradition, I think."

"A jack-o'-lantern?" said Alan. "Really?"

Was that sort of thing appropriate?

"This was her favorite holiday," she explained. "She even tried to hang Halloween decorations on our Christmas tree. We've carved one for her every year—just a tiny one, out of a sugar pie pumpkin."

"With the curliest and most-twisted stalk we could find," said Mr. Fox, "because she was always a stickler for that detail."

"We think she'd appreciate it."

Alan thought about this. As unusual as the notion of a jack-o'-lantern being left behind in a somber place such as this might seem, it held great meaning to Lydia's parents. Perhaps that fact alone made the gesture appropriate. And they were right—Lydia would be endlessly amused to know they had done this for her.

"She did love Halloween, didn't she?" he said. "I wish I had been that clever. Thoughtful… I'm sorry."

_Don't break down… Don't break down…_

But his eyes were already welling up.

"What on Earth for?"

Mrs. Fox reached for him, placing a hand on his shoulder. She should not be bothered with consoling him, especially not today, especially not after the way he had treated them. Alan straightened up and wiped away his tears with his free hand.

"For my abhorrent behavior after it happened," he said apologetically. "For not attending her funeral. You were so kind and generous to me, and I couldn't even express my gratitude because it…hurt so much. I felt awful about it afterward. I still feel awful."

"Alan, sweetie, we _understand_. It's hard. It's still hard. We didn't take it personally."

Mrs. Fox pulled him in for a hug. "Don't you dare feel bad about that," she said, patting his back before pulling away. "Now, promise me you're not going to dwell on it anymore, okay?"

Alan nodded.

"How did you do it?" he asked. "How did you move on?"

She blinked, considering his words.

"I don't think you ever really move on, Alan. It's more like you're moving through. Not having her around still hurts. It probably always will. But we try to honor her memory as much as possible and find the joy in the things she cared about."

"You'd better believe we put those Halloween decorations on the tree now," said Mr. Fox. "They are ugly, no doubt, but they make us laugh, so it's worth it."

"I'm sorry this still upsets you," she said. "I hope you feel better and have a happy life. We're not far away if you ever need to talk. Remember that."

"I will," said Alan. "Thank you."

"We won't keep you any longer. And anyway, we need to get this one home so we can get ready for trick-or-treating," Mrs. Fox said, looking down at Brandon. "He loves Halloween, just like his sister."

"Tell Alan who you're going to be for trick-or-treat, Bran," said Mr. Fox.

"Ironman!" Brandon said instantly, his eyes lighting up.

"He's been babbling about it all morning," she said. "It was nice to meet you, Muffy. Take care of yourself, Alan."

Alan was quick to ask before he could chicken out.

"Before you go," he said, "I have rather an odd question. I'm not sure if you have the answer, but I'd at least like to know what you think about it. The chess set you gave me…I noticed something scratched on the bottom of the white queen. At first I thought it was a stick figure, but on closer inspection it appears to be the letters O and K. Did those letters have any significance to Lydia?"

Mrs. Fox's eyes widened with recognition.

"Not to Lydia, no. They were my mother's initials—Olivia Keegan. That was her chess set."

"Olivia Keegan…" Alan mused.

_All this time…_

"My mother had a habit of putting her initials on everything. I think it had something to do with being an identical twin. My father was a bit upset when he found out what she had done to the queen, but Mom just said it made the set more special."

_All this time it had been Olivia Keegan's initials._

"It's a beautiful set," Alan said. "I never thanked you properly for it, but it really is."

_Was._

Until he had ruined it. If Lydia's grandfather had been upset over his wife carving her initials into the bottom of the queen, where no one was likely to see, what would he have thought of Alan flattening one corner of the board?

"Thank you for thinking of me."

"You're very welcome, Alan. And I mean it—take care of yourself."

Muffy and Alan waved goodbye to Lydia's family as the trio walked toward the car parked down the street.

"I will," Alan called after them, as if the request were no big deal at all rather than an enormous undertaking. "You do the same."

He stared after them.

"So, I guess that answers that question," Muffy said cautiously. "Are you okay?"

"To be honest, I'm relieved. I feel foolish, but relieved."

Muffy said nothing but offered him a sympathetic look and her arm. He linked his arm with hers and the two entered through the gate.

Not wishing to wander the cemetery grounds until he eventually found Lydia's plot, he had searched for its location earlier in the week via the cemetery's online directory and committed it to memory. As he and Muffy navigated the cobblestone pathways, wading through the dead leaves tumbling across on the gusts, Alan spoke up.

"I begin a prescription regimen soon."

"Medicine?" Muffy said. "For your…?"

"Yeah."

"You look torn. Should I say congratulations?"

"Only if it works. I feel anxious about it, but what else is new? Dr. Hartmann-Krause assured me that, if one prescription doesn't work, we'll keep trying until we find one or even a combination that does. I don't know what to expect, not until I know what I'll be taking. I just thought I should tell you in case you notice a change."

"Thanks for telling me," she said. "I hope it helps."

"There it is," Alan said, and Muffy followed his gaze.

The orange of the jack-o'-lantern had caught his eye, a tiny pumpkin off in the distance, sitting in front of a headstone. His steps instantly dragged. It was like wading through water. Still, he plodded on, with Muffy clinging to his arm tightly now. As it came into focus, he could see that the jack-o'-lantern was not lit, but it bore the classic look of triangular eyes and a lopsided, square-toothed smile. Lydia would have loved it. He grinned in spite of himself. Next to her grave sat a small memorial bench made of black marble to match her headstone, and on it were etched the words:

"_All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us."_

It was very close to the personal philosophy Lydia had lived by, the attitude that kept her going, kept her successful despite adversity.

"Is that from the Bible?" Alan said, trying to remember where he had heard the quote.

"I think it's from _The Lord of the Rings_," Muffy said, then offered, "Orlando Bloom," as if that explained everything when Alan gave her a questioning look.

Alan stared at the plot for a long moment.

"Am I supposed to say something?" he said finally. "Is that how this works?"

"I'm not an expert," said Muffy, "but I think you do whatever feels right."

He walked forward and knelt to place the flowers next to the jack-o'-lantern. He could not believe that he had ever thought she was out there somewhere, terrorizing his dreams or trying to send him messages. This space felt so still, so final, so inexplicably a part of him now. There had been the sound of birds, squirrels, traffic beyond the cemetery walls, and even a breeze rustling the vestiges of dried leaves on the tree limbs. Locked in this moment, however, everything melted away to silence. He felt a tremble in his chest and before he knew it, his face was buried in his hands again, and Muffy was quick to hug him. At last, he allowed himself to hug her back.

"I should've come here sooner," he said tearfully. "If I had, I likely never would have bought into Prunella's scheme. This feels too…real to be anything but…I'm sorry. I can't think of the words…"

"You don't have to…" Muffy said.

"It really wasn't her, was it?"

"No. I don't believe it was."

"She's really gone forever, isn't she?"

"I don't know if I'd say _that_."

Alan pulled away.

"Let me guess, you're going to tell me she's alive in my heart or something."

"Well…yeah. Even if you move past this—or through this, as Lydia's mom says—you're never going to forget her. It seems like what you had was pretty special. Some people go years or even their entire lives without connecting with someone the way you connected with her. It's going to stick with you."

They stood quietly for a while longer before Muffy asked, "Do you want some privacy, or do you want me to stay? I don't want to throw you off, but if you need me…"

"Would you mind?" Alan said, surprising himself. "Just a minute or two? I know I asked you to come with me, so I feel like a heel asking you to—"

"Take your time," she said. "Whenever you're ready, I'll be waiting."

"Thanks."

Muffy left, stepping back onto the footpath. Alan unbuttoned his jacket so he could take a seat on the cold bench, and he settled into his thinking pose. He thought about how this place was nowhere near as scary as he had built it up to be in his mind. It was actually lovely and peaceful here. He had the strangest urge to carve a jack-o'-lantern. What would Muffy say if he asked for a ride to the pumpkin patch so he could pick up his own sugar pie pumpkin, one with a curly and twisted stem? Maybe he should do it, begin a new tradition of his own and burn a candle inside it all throughout the night in her honor. Maybe he should play with the chess set from time to time. He would need an opponent, though…

How odd it was that these were the thoughts that occupied his mind in this moment, not the fact that Lydia was gone and there was nothing he could do about it. Or perhaps it was not. He had been living with that fact for years now, no matter how much he had tried to ignore it. The fact had come as a crushing blow, just as he had been anticipating his future with Lydia, wondering what wonderful moments it might hold and how they were going to figure things out. He had to decide what to do with the new future that lay before him, a future where he was left without a partner, but a future all the same. Allowing himself to remain in a grief-induced stasis would continue to destroy him from the inside out. He was getting his life back soon. He had jobs, responsibilities, friends, and he wanted to find joy in them again. He wanted to fight, to move through, to figure things out.

He pulled out his pocket journal and jotted all these thoughts down. He dogeared the pages so he could easily return to them, remind himself. He added one more thing before closing the journal:

_This is going to be hard, but I want to have a life._

Alan stood up, stiff from the cold, pocketed the journal, and rebuttoned his jacket. He kissed his fingertips then placed them atop Lydia's headstone, bidding her goodbye.

"Well, then…" he said softly, "Okay."

_To be continued… _


	29. Apology Tour

"And that's chess," Alan said to Muffy. "What did you think?"

It was Sunday afternoon, the first of November. Alan's mother had complained of feeling under the weather with sinus pain earlier this morning, and Alan had jumped to volunteer for at least the later shift at the ice cream shop. Being the day after the anniversary, she had been hesitant. However, after assuring her that he was up to the task and eager to get back to work, she had given Alan permission to cover for her starting at noon so she could seek help for her ailment.

Historically, the day after Halloween had always been slow, the majority of Elwood City children satisfying their sweet tooth with piles of candy amassed the night before. Alan anticipated a handful of younger customers today and a majority of older patrons who had no sweets on which to fall back, but he knew business would be down overall for the next couple of days. To combat potential boredom, he had preemptively called Muffy and asked if she wanted to hang out and let him teach her how to play chess. Muffy had shown up today as soon as her showing of _Deadlight_ had let out, and his set, formerly Lydia's, sat between them atop the front counter. Alan played white as he stayed on the business side of the counter, seeing to the needs of the occasional customer, while Muffy sat on a stool, nursing an apple crumble Cone-crete, playing black.

"I didn't…hate it," Muffy said, making a bemused face.

"But you didn't like it either," said Alan.

"I'm not really sure what just went down except that you wiped the floor with me."

"You'll get better," Alan assured her as he left her to attend to Rattles, who had just walked in.

Rattles ordered two chocolate malts to go, extra whip and two cherries on one, no whip and no cherries on the other. As Alan set to work, George, who sat at the far end of the counter spoke up.

"Alan, can I get a closer look at your set?"

"Be my guest!" Alan called over his shoulder as the shake spinner began to whir and grind.

He watched out of the corner of his eye as George got off his stool and walked to where Muffy sat. Once the noise had stopped, his voice was nothing short of awestruck.

"This is really impressive craftsmanship," he said. "Hand-carved? The guy who made this has a lot of skill."

"Too bad I was careless and ruined it forever," Alan said glumly, handing the malts to Rattles.

"Why do you think you ruined it forever?" George said, earnestly perplexed.

"Look at the corner."

"Oh, that? That's no big deal. So the miter doesn't come to a perfect point and there's a tiny chunk missing. I've fixed way worse than that before."

"Really?" said Muffy.

"How?" said Alan.

"Oh, some sanding, wood filler and sawdust," George said casually. "Light cosmetic work. Once it's done, you'd have to strain your eyes to be able to tell the difference. Would you like for me to give it a shot?"

Muffy gave Alan a look.

"Would you?" Alan said to him.

"Sure. Keep the pieces, and I'll have the board back to you in a couple of days. By the way, do you know who made this? I'd love to see more of his work."

"James Keegan made it," said Alan. "He was Lydia Fox's grandfather. This used to be her board. It's a family heirloom."

"Lydia Fox, huh?" said Rattles, checking his phone before shoving it into his pocket and grabbing the shakes once more. "Used to go to Glenbrook? I played against her a couple of times. Kicked my butt good on the first go-'round, but I got her back on the rematch… Then I heard what happened. I'm sorry, man," he said to Alan. "I know you guys were tight. That really sucks."

"Thanks," said Alan.

Rattles paused to take in the board.

"Holy crap," he said. "Little Georgie's right—this thing's friggin' beautiful."

"Little Georgie...?" George muttered to himself.

"You know, Alan," Muffy piped up, gesturing toward Rattles as if presenting a gameshow prize, "_this_ is who you should be playing chess against, a man who clearly knows what he's doing."

"Hey, thanks, Muffy," Rattles said, sounding genuinely flattered. "Sounds good to me. I ain't had a decent match in a while. Hit me up if you ever want to go. In the meantime, I'd better bounce. She'll kill me if I make her wait any longer."

"Molly?" said George.

"Nah," Rattles said, his word a restrained scoff. "My girlfriend. Molls and I…we don't really talk no more. See ya."

Alan, George, and Muffy shared a quick look.

"I don't suppose you know what that's about, do you, gossip queen?" said Alan.

"I _don't_," said Muffy, sounding intrigued, her brow quirked as she stared after Rattles with piqued interest as he walked past the shop window, "but I'm sure it'll come out eventually."

"I should go, too," George said eagerly. "I want to practice some of my "Shipoopi" choreography and draw up a plan for this baby.

George said his goodbyes as he picked up the chessboard and held it protectively against his chest. As he exited the ice cream shop, Prunella walked in.

She looked apprehensive, as if she would rather be anywhere else. When she saw Muffy at the counter, she drew even more into herself. Muffy clenched her fist which had previously been resting atop the counter.

"Don't," Alan said lowly to her, barely moving his lips. "Let me."

Without a word, Muffy conceded by relaxing her scowl.

Prunella took a few timid steps forward and asked, "Hi, Alan. Am I allowed in here?"

"Everyone is allowed," Alan said.

"I meant more like 'in your presence'."

"He knows what you meant," said Muffy.

"Muffy, please," Alan warned evenly. "Sure, Prunella. Have a seat."

Prunella waved a hand. "I'm good right here, thanks."

She was easily ten feet away from them. Her expression was alert, fearful. Was she afraid to come closer?

"How are you feeling?" she said.

"Boy…" Alan huffed. "That's a loaded question."

"I get that," Prunella said. "Now. Finally."

She reached into her bag and took out an object wrapped in crinkling cellophane, tied at the end with a silky white ribbon.

"I baked this for you, to offer my sympathy. You know, for your loss. It's pumpkin bread with praline crumble topping. It's really good. Marina thinks so, and she always tells me the truth…even when I don't want to hear it. Look, when you of all people came to me for help—_my_ kind of help—I was so…flattered? Ecstatic? I don't know what, but I thought it meant something, that I was actually powerful enough to change your mind. If _you_ thought I had a gift, then it must be real. Instead of listening to reason, I bought into my own hype, and maybe that's not bad all by itself, but I dragged you into it and made things worse for you, at a time when you probably needed a different kind of help."

She stumbled over the last part, as if she were trying to speak honestly yet delicately at the same time.

"If I ever lost…someone I cared about that much, I'd probably be in the same boat as you. I'd try anything to speak to her—or whomever—again, even stuff I didn't believe in. So, what I'm saying is I'm sorry I let you buy into my hype too. I'm sorry I tried to manipulate your emotions. And I'm sorry I wasn't able to help. For what it's worth, I really _was_ trying to help, there at the end, anyway. And Muffy?"

Muffy looked at Prunella.

"I'm sorry I used you."

"Apology accepted," said Alan, who hoped Muffy picked up on the pointed look he was giving her.

"Yeah," Muffy said. "Apology accepted."

Alan half expected her to add, "Just don't ever do it again," but she left it at that.

"I'm sure this is going to come as a shock," Alan said to Prunella, his voice laced with a light dose of dry sarcasm, "but I've been thinking a lot. While I don't have to agree with you, I don't have to constantly rip on you either. I wish I had done what Lydia said and just chilled out more, curbed my skepticism and pedantic impulses. I'm trying to be more like that now, to live and let live. It's a work in progress, like everything these days. I'm sorry for being so relentless. I'm sorry I got out of hand Saturday night. I didn't mean to frighten you."

"And I'm sorry I lost my cool," Muffy chimed in. "Look at us. We're all so sorry. We should start a support group or something."

"It's all good," Prunella said. "I'm not mad about it anymore."

She took a couple of small steps closer and extended the arm holding the pumpkin bread out, inching ever closer to the counter, as if she meant to drop it there once she was in range.

"I'm just going to leave this here for you…" she said cautiously.

"Prunella," Alan said firmly, "please don't be afraid of me." He reached out, offering his hand to her. "Let bygones be bygones?"

Prunella thought about it and relaxed. "You're right," she said as she placed the loaf on the counter and shook hands with him, "I'm being silly. I got pretty spooked Saturday night, and I guess it went to my head." Her expression suddenly brightened and she added, "Hey, maybe I _can_ help you. If you're looking for ways to relax, I could teach you some yoga. It takes a lot of precision and focus—and I know how much you love _that_—but it's also calming and rewarding, plus you'll be more flexible, and that'll help you with sports."

"Um, I'll think about it," he said. "And if you ever need help with chemistry or a broken toaster, you know where to go. Have a seat and I'll make a Cone-crete for you. Cinnamon roll is my favorite, and Muffy likes the apple crumble, but you look like you'd be up for pumpkin cheesecake. My treat."

"It sounds tempting," Prunella said. "but could I come back later?"

"In a rush?" Muffy said.

"Kind of. I need to get to the gym. You guys aren't the only stop on the Prunella Deegan apology tour."

* * *

The Belinsky School of Gymnastic smelled the same as it always did, of warm air, stale sweat, and musty carpet, but that had been Prunella's experience with most gymnastics facilities. Ever since Marina made team at Bellow's school, Prunella had followed her around from clinic to clinic, meet to meet, and super smelly gyms just seemed to be the norm. Still, the odor was so strong it wafted into the lobby through the open door. Prunella briefly wondered if the real reason her mother burned incense during her yoga classes was to mask the smell when Marina caught her attention. Through the doorway, at the other end of the gym, Marina was busy at the bars, practicing kips. Prunella distinctly remembered the name of the maneuver because she loved the way it looked and the way Marina made it look effortless. As if in a trance, she drew closer and closer.

"Yoga girl!" called Bellow in his thick accent no sooner than Prunella had stepped through the gym's entrance. "This is closed session. We train for meet in two weeks. Come back at end of month for watch week."

"Please, Bellow," said Prunella, shaking her head slightly to break the spell she was under. "I need to talk to Marina, just for a minute or two? It's really important."

"You two have fight?" he said in a voice that was kinder and much quieter.

"We—how did you know?"

"Bellow knows all…and she's been in _sour_ mood. Maybe you can fix it?"

"I'll do my best…"

"Very good. MARINA! YOGA GIRL HERE FOR YOU!"

Marina cast off the low bar, landed solidly, and then made her way across the gym, careful to skirt outside the floor boundaries, inside of which her teammates practiced tumbling passes. She navigated the gym with astonishing ease, no doubt knowing its layout as well as the interior of her family home. Marina slid her fingers out of her grips as she got closer, rolling her wrists to give them a break. Her face was contorted into a look somewhere between embarrassment and annoyance, embarrassed because Bellow had called upon her, annoyed because Prunella had tracked her down here.

_Sour mood, indeed_, Prunella thought, and instantly became more nervous.

As soon as Marina was in earshot, Bellow said, "You two talk in lobby. Make quickly."

"Yes, sir," Prunella and Marina said in unison. "Sorry, sir."

As soon as they had reached the empty waiting area, Marina crossed her arms, leaving white smears of chalk across the biceps of her dark blue leotard.

"Shoot," she said simply.

They both knew time was of the essence and Bellow would hold them to his order of "make quickly".

"Okay, so here's the thing…" Prunella began. "I couldn't do it."

Marina's jaw dropped. "Oh?"

Prunella launched into a recount of the second séance's details, spilling them out as quickly as she could speak, right up to the way she had fled from the Powers residence in terror, leaving a devastated Alan in her wake.

"You were right. I built up his hopes and I couldn't deliver. And when I let him down, it crushed him. I knew it was going to happen, just as soon as I told him the truth. I thought about trying to prevent it, just tell him what he wanted to hear—not to save myself but to make him feel better. He looked so sad… But I thought about you and the stuff you said and… I just wish I had done it sooner. I finally got the nerve to talk to him today. We made amends, but I still feel kind of ashamed of myself."

"I'm glad you did the right thing," Marina said softly. "I know that probably wasn't easy for you to admit, but I'm proud of you."

"Yeah. Thanks. I'm kind of bummed, though, knowing that I've wasted my life chasing an unachievable goal. This has been a big part of my identity, Marina. Who am I without it?"

"Maybe it's time you found out," Marina offered. "You're seriously a good baker. You could become a pastry chef. Or how about costume design? I got a ton of compliments on my Selene costume. Whatever you do, you'll still have your friends. And me."

Marina held out her hand, and it took Prunella a second to process what she wanted. She was distracted by the loose leather strip of the grip, which flopped to and fro as it dangled from its wrist strap. It occurred to her that Marina wanted her hand. Prunella reached out to meet her, and Marina caught her by the wrist first, only to slide down until they could hook fingers. Marina's hand was a mixture of contrasting and confusing textures. It was still coated in chalk, dry and calloused from repeated use on the bars, yet it was gummy and clammy in places where the chalk had mixed with sweat. Still, her hand had never felt more comforting. More inviting…

They parted with lightning-quick reflexes when Bellow spoke from the lobby doorway.

"Time's up, yoga girl. Want more time with Marina, either make team or stay in lobby until practice is over."

Prunella looked to Marina, who appeared hopeful. Maybe she would accompany her back to the ice cream shop after practice. Sure, Marina might not want a Cone-crete right now during her intense training, but at least they would be able to talk. How good that would feel, just to be able to talk to her again.

"Great idea, sir," Prunella said to Bellow as she plopped down in one of the lobby's chairs. "I'd be happy to wait on Marina."

_To be continued…_


	30. New Beginnings

It was close to bedtime, time for Alan to take his medicine. After homework, he had worked on reorganizing his shelves, trying to decide if he could make room for the chess set there, or if it would be best to keep it in a safer place and only take it out whenever he played. Maybe he would just display the white queen. Yes, that would likely be best. He decided to leave the shelves as is and head to the kitchen.

As he descended the stairs, he wondered what the board would look like when he got it back from George. Good as new, or would he still be able to see the damage if he looked hard enough? Being broken underneath a deceptive visage was something he knew a bit about. Perhaps it was apropos that he possessed a chess board that was a reflection of himself. Poetic, if a little depressing. But the damage was done. All that was left was to move forward as best he could, to decide what to do with the time that was given.

He missed being productive. He missed soccer and academic team practice meets. He longed for springtime and the science fair. He wanted his learner's permit and his car, the sweet project that awaited him. How much was too much? Was it safe to dive in deep? Should he consult with Dr. Paula? Probably. It seemed the responsible thing to do, even if he did want everything right now.

The kitchen was quiet and empty when he entered. His parents were likely cuddled up in the den, watching whichever popular drama program was on tonight. He crossed over to draw a glass of water from the tap, then to the counter where his medication sat, waiting for him to take his first dose.

ZENOLTA, the name of his prescription, was written across the small box in bold, aqua-green font. Alan had seen commercials for this drug many times before, often depicting a poor sufferer, a young woman, in black and white, slinking away into a corner during a party. After taking Zenolta, however, the screen becomes a full technicolor wonderland à la post-twister Dorothy Gale opening her door to the Land of Oz. Poor sufferer no more, the woman has become the life of the party and is living it up on the dance floor in a sparkly minidress, a handsome young man twirling her around in dizzy circles. Never once during his viewings of this commercial had Alan imagined that he would be prescribed this medication one day. He tried to imagine himself in the poor sufferer's place after the Zenolta had taken effect, kicking open the gymnasium door at MCM, smoothing out the lapels of his suit and announcing to the entire Autumn Ball party that he, Alan Powers, was there to start the dance revolution, as if he were the protagonist of some 80's movie. He sincerely hoped nothing like that happened, though it might be better than the alternative.

"One thirty-milligram tablet by mouth daily with water," he mumbled to himself.

Alan was allowed to take Zenolta with food if he experienced nausea. He had read the instructions as well as the information pack that had come with his prescription twice. The list of possible side effects, everything from the common drowsiness to less-common impotence, had been a bit intimidating, but he decided he would take the medicine in good faith that it would do its job, promising himself that he would be vigilant of side effects and report back to Dr. Paula as soon as possible.

Alan pressed one capsule out of the blister pack into his palm and contemplated it, aqua-green on one end, cream-white on the other. Would he notice a difference? How soon would he notice a difference? Would the drug provide him with a sense of confidence, peace of mind that everything was going to be all right? Nothing was ever truly all right, was it? Life was just a series of lulls between the bad times, inevitable, unavoidable pain.

In an instant, Alan could feel the shift. This was exactly why he needed to try medication. It was almost impossible to keep his vicious inner monologue at bay; he was always lurking out of sight, around the corners and in the shadows, waiting for the perfect moment to sneak up beside him and highjack his mind, replacing his hope with dark thoughts, encouraging him to fear the pain.

_You've got it all wrong, Alan_, his monologue said. _Pain is not what you really fear, is it? It's the happiness that comes before._

"Oh, shut up," Alan whispered to himself, and he tossed the capsule into his mouth.

He toasted the silence with his water glass, "To your health," and then he drank and drank as if his life depended on it. In truth, it very well might. When the water was gone, he reached for his phone.

"Hi. Prunella?" he said when she picked up. "It's Alan. I hope it's not too late. Listen, about yoga…"

* * *

Chip paced back and forth in the front office of Tarver Ranch and Rescue. Due to an unexpected issue down at the boarding stables, he was stuck waiting on her. At least it was his day off and he was not on a tight schedule. An odd sort of mishap had led him here today, and he was grateful for it.

It all started last Wednesday, when Chip had decided to sneak into the rescue with a couple of burritos from Catherine's favorite lard-free restaurant and surprise her, hoping they could have lunch together before he had to head back to Belmont and prepare for work. It had been more than a bit brave of him to go there during business hours, but Catherine's had been the only car there at the moment, and he had known it was safe.

"'Sup, Cat? You there?" he had called into the stables and got nothing in response. He tried her doorbell twice, thinking that maybe she had already gone upstairs for lunch. Still, nothing. He went back to the stables entrance again and chanced a few steps inside. Chip could see him all the way at the back. Axel, Catherine's project rescue horse, the horse she referred to as _her_ horse, stood craning his head over the gate of his stall, as he often did when he anticipated Catherine's approach. Chip would not have believed horses could have expressions, but Axel's disappointment was evident when he realized that Chip was the only person here, and Catherine was still nowhere to be found.

Despite the change in mood, Axel never looked better, not since Chip had first seen him, anyway. While Catherine and the other hands worked hard to make sure all the rescues at Tarver were well taken care of, Chip knew that Axel was Catherine's pride and joy. He was a special personal project she had taken on even before she had gotten the live-in gig here, and Chip knew she loved Axel like some parents loved their children, maybe even better. She had not left Axel to fend for himself, so she was already miles ahead of the big guy. Axel's chestnut coat was becoming shinier with each passing week, he was still gaining weight, and his wounds were all but healed. He even got around more spryly these days. Chip distinctly remembered when Axel looked as if he were at death's doorstep. Catherine really was a miracle worker. She could be proud of herself when Axel was finally adopted out.

"I don't blame you, boy," Chip said as Axel stuck his head back in his stall and resumed eating hay. "I'd be disappointed, too. Where is she, huh? Where's your mom? Your _mom_?" he repeated to himself with an incredulous mumble. "Listen to me, talking to a damned _horse_…"

Maybe she was out in the pasture, or whatever. He had reached for his phone and was about to dial Catherine when there was a voice behind him.

"Sorry, hon, Catherine's not here right now."

Chip whirled around to see Janice standing at the entrance in full ranch garb, her trademark indigo Stetson included. She had been in a powdered wig the last time he had seen her, wearing a judge costume. Somehow, she looked more intimidating now. Maybe it was not the idea of Janice catching him here that scared him, but the thought of Catherine knowing that Janice had caught him here. Either way, he swallowed hard, thinking of what to say as she stared back, one hand holding the handle of a bucket filled with grooming supplies, the other placed firmly on her hip.

"Janice, hi," he said lamely. "Where is she?"

"Took my truck to pick up a few supplies. What's in the bag, Charlie?"

To his surprise, her tone was conversational. She did not sound upset at all. He reminded himself that Janice had always been friendly toward him. It was Catherine who was so stringent when it came to rules.

"Oh, you know," he said, "just some burritos. I'm sorry, Janice. I know it's business hours, but I wanted to swing by and bring Catherine lunch. I hope that's okay."

Janice smiled kindly back at him. It occurred to Chip that what he had mistaken for a stern look was probably just her squinting from the bright sunlight.

"You're sweet," she said, "just like your dad. Such a nice thing to do for your girlfriend."

Chip was so focused on not becoming irritated over Janice's comparison to the big guy that he nearly missed her second compliment.

"Wait a minute," he said. "Did she tell you she was my girlfriend?"

"Oh, honey… She didn't tell me anything. All I had to do was pay attention. No one thinks I check the nighttime security footage unless there's a problem, but I definitely do. We had a break-in a couple of years ago, and I've been a little paranoid ever since. Can't help it. Imagine my surprise when I started seeing best friend Charlie's car pulling through the front gate well after midnight and parking outside Catherine's apartment entrance. I assume you're not coming over here in the small hours of the morning to play Yahtzee. Am I wrong?"

So they had been caught after all?

"See, what that is…" Chip stammered. "I work late nights, and the only time we can really hang out… You're not wrong," he said, defeated. "It's supposed to be a secret, though. For now, anyway."

Janice walked into the stables, the bucket swinging lazily from her hand as she did. She chuckled at him.

"Relax. Why are you so scared?"

Did he look scared?

"Beats me," he said. "This is Cat's idea. I don't care who knows about us. Are you going to tell her you know?"

"Absolutely not," she said. "I don't care if you two want to knock boots on the sly. Catherine does an excellent job around here. Beyond excellent. As far as I'm concerned, she can do whatever—or whoever—she wants off the clock so long as it's safe and legal. No business of mine."

Chip let out a heavy breath.

"You've just saved me a boatload of anxiety," he said. "She's determined we not go public to everyone until she's ready… You wouldn't happen to have any idea why that is?"

"Sorry, kid. But if it helps, I couldn't pry much info out of her about that fella she was seeing before you either. Ben…something."

"Grossman," said Chip, who had been unable to forget the name.

"Yeah. She's very proper and businesslike during work hours, not like that Shannon, who volunteered every dirty detail about her life whether I asked for it or not. It's actually been a nice change. Why she wants to keep it a secret is anyone's guess. Maybe she's super private. Hell, maybe she even gets off on it a little. But you two are having fun, and that's what counts. Wouldn't stress over it too much. You're special to her."

"Why do you think that?"

"Anytime she has a guest over, she always, and I mean _always_, asks for permission. When she brought her grandmother for a visit, when her friends came over for dinner… All on her days off, on her time. She didn't need to ask my permission for anything. But you? You're here a _lot_. She never asks for permission, never even speaks your name, but she always has a huge smile on her face the next day."

"I'm special to her…"

"A piece of advice, and then I'll butt out. My BS meter is pretty sensitive, and I can tell Catherine's the real deal. If I were you, I'd do whatever it takes to keep her."

"Believe me," Chip said, "I'm trying, but it's all up to her, whether she finds me worthy. I wish there was something I could do to show her how much I…love her, that I'm committed to us. Maybe she'd relax a little, too."

"Think hard, boy. I don't think another one of those enormous bouquets is going to cut it."

"You knew that was me?"

"I suspected something was up, what with your visit and the timing of delivery. Like I said, my BS meter is sensitive. Why do you think I welcomed you back here anytime? Because you were charming?"

Janice let it hang, but Chip had no response.

"Now," Janice said, checking her watch, "Catherine is due back pretty soon, and she's always been punctual. If I were you, I'd skedaddle. Don't want to break Catherine's delusion of being a master secret keeper…"

What could have meant disaster for Catherine turned into one of the best things that could happen for her. Perhaps for the both of them. Chip had thought a lot about his conversation with Janice that night while at work. As he was leaving the Waterfront after his shift, he knew exactly what he wanted to do to show Catherine how much he cared for her, but he was clueless on where to start. That was why he was here today, pacing the floor.

As he waited, Chip took in the décor of the office, the soft lighting, the stone floors, the cowhide rug draped over the back of a rich brown leather sofa. The office had received quite an extensive and stylish makeover, judging from some of the pictures that hung on the wall that featured a room very much like this one, though nowhere near as cowboy-chic as it was now. Chip wondered if the big guy had paid for all these extravagant furnishings, too, when he had renovated the rescue for Janice and Rudy, ultimately deciding it was likely he had.

_Just stop thinking about it. Why do you even care?_

Because this benevolent act the big guy had adopted sometime after he had cut off his son reeked of phoniness, and the fact that no one else seemed to notice or care was like having salt rubbed into his wounds, wounds Chip had tried to convince himself did not exist anymore. Despite his better judgement, he had revisited the search engine page from nights before and read a few of the sickening articles about the big guy's charitable contributions. How the times had changed. Ed Crosswire was now praised as a hometown hero. No one knew the cold, calculated, and heartless acts the man was capable of. To them, he was just a family man, a self-made multimillionaire, with dollars and concern to spare for the entire community. Unless you made him angry, that is. Then you were as good as dead to him. That's what they did not know.

Chip stopped pacing and found himself in front of a large framed photo from the grand re-opening of Tarver in 2005. There had to be fifty people in the photo, grouped in front of the brand-new rescue stables, some in jeans and work boots, some in jeans and cowboy boots, most donning hardhats and white Tarver Ranch and Rescue t-shirts. At the front of the group was a large red banner:

**NEW BEGINNINGS**

**2005**

Holding up the banner were a less-gray Janice and a thinner Rudy, the big guy, his mother, and a blonde rabbit woman. The woman was an exception to most everyone else, fashionably dressed in an off-the-shoulder, rusty-red cashmere sweater and Brunello Cucinelli jeans. She looked young and attractive, but the sunglasses she wore were huge, and it was hard to make out all her features. Truth be told, the woman reminded him a lot of Lexie. The big guy was another exception, having pulled one of the white Tarver tees over his button-up and tie and tossing on a hardhat, likely only donning the garments for the photo op, likely whipping them off as soon as he could so he could get back to the lot. Chip decided the mystery blonde woman was Mrs. M. She fit Catherine's description, and, like the big guy, she had probably shown up for the photo and then went back to being a trophy wife or something. Mrs. M's arm was draped over his mother's shoulder, pulling her into a side hug, their heads touching. She was definitely the mutual acquaintance between the Tarvers and his parents.

Chip's study of the photo was interrupted by the sound of someone entering the office from the back entrance.

"So sorry about that, Charlie," said Janice as she removed her Stetson and hung it on a hook by the doorframe. "Sometimes you've gotta put out fires yourself. Looks like we're in a time crunch if we want to conclude this meeting before Catherine gets back."

To get Catherine out of the way so they could talk freely, Janice had sent Catherine on another supply run today, this time in search of obscure items that would be a lot more difficult to find.

"No problem," said Chip, secretly grateful she had finally shown up. "Thanks for meeting with me personally, Janice."

"Anything for Ed's son," Janice said with a bright smile that made her look ten years younger. "And Catherine, of course."

Chip ignored that and fought the urge to shudder.

"I'm sure you're busy," he said, "but I really need to keep this on the D-L until Christmas Day."

"You do know Catherine's Jewish, right?" she said.

"And I know she'll be here that evening, which is exactly where I _need _her to be."

"Don't you worry about a thing," she said. "I won't say a word. About our talk or your big surprise. Now, have a seat and let's get started…"

* * *

"You're coming over for Thanksgiving?" Bitzi said to Bo as they exited their counsellor's office. The sun was low, and Buster should be taking the enchiladas out of the oven right about now.

"Only if I can bring at least one side dish," said Bo. "That was a joke. That is, unless you want me to bring one?"

"I've got it under control," she said with a wave of her hand. "A bottle of wine, and we'll call it even?"

"Can do," he said looking relieved. "So, next week? Same time, same channel?"

"Be here or be square…" she said, then, seriously, "I'm sorry, Bo."

"What for?"

She fought the urge not to get emotional again.

"I can't help but feel like I dominated the conversation today."

Bitzi had talked at length about removing Byron's things from the storage unit, how she had expected to feel regret or guilt over it in the days that followed, but instead she had felt peace, which subsequently made her wonder whether she should feel guilty about _that_. She had been in tears for most of the time, taking several breaks so she could compose herself and continue, all while Bo had sat next to her on Dr. Chen's sofa with his arm around her, listening but saying nothing.

She had talked about the photo Bo had taken of her after Elliot's attack, how she and Bo had decided to get rid of it after they dropped off Byron's things, burning it along with its negative in Bo's fireplace. She talked about how she was happy no one would ever be able to look at the photo again, but the fact had not erased the foolishness she felt over the incident that had left her battered and injured.

What she had not spoken of was Joel Noonan, the advertising exec who worked with the _Times_, whom she had met at last year's holiday party, who had asked her out for coffee Friday after work.

"Just to chat," Joel had said when she looked at him in surprise.

"Just to chat" could mean a couple of things. Joel could have meant it in its purest, simplest form. He was divorced and had a daughter in college. Maybe he was looking for friends outside of work. Or maybe he was looking for something more. She had the feeling it was the latter and not the former. Taken off guard and perhaps a bit frightened, she had quickly asked him if she could think about it.

"It's just that life is pretty crazy right now," she had explained, "and I wasn't exactly looking for a—not that I'm assuming! I'm not… Today just isn't a good day for me, Joel. I'm sorry."

"Not a problem," he had said in a tone that was warm and smooth before leaving her office. "I understand. I do hope you'll think about it, though."

It was true that Friday was not a good day to have coffee with Joel, but that was also true of Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. Counselling was more than an hour on Mondays. It was a life-altering exercise that required her and her ex-husband to reconcile the past ten painfilled years. She and Bo were co-parents, closer than they had been in a long, long time. Perhaps their family was fractured, but every member had a duty to make it as healthy and functional as possible. And it was finally happening. It required a lot of work and a ton of energy, but they were making strides every day. Bitzi did not think she could risk that for anything or anyone, no matter how interesting or handsome he was. Still, she had been unable to prevent herself from wondering where "just to chat" might lead.

"Don't feel bad about it," Bo said to her. "You said what you needed to say, right? That's the goal, to lay everything out on the table?"

"I feel like most sessions have been that way."

"Bitz, after eleven years of not talking about it, I'm glad someone is saying _something_."

"But you admit it, that we haven't shared equal time."

"Maybe you do talk a _bit_ more than me, but…"

"I knew it," she said.

"But only _lately_. I don't want to argue over it."

"Neither do I. I really don't. Do you want to get coffee?"

"At six o'clock on a Monday?" he said, bemused.

She reached underneath her glasses to rub her eyes, which still burned, though dully.

"I don't care what we drink," she said. "I just want to give _you_ a chance to talk. If you want."

"Me?" he said, looking touched. "You know there's no way I'd turn that down. Your car or mine?"

Bitzi sent Buster a text as Bo held his passenger door open for her. She told their son where she and his father would be, to go ahead and have dinner if he did not feel like waiting, but to make sure he kept the rest of the enchiladas covered with foil and warming in the oven.

She could not help but wonder if there might be a sliver of hope for her and Joel after all. Could there be a way to make it work? A man like him likely would not be available forever. How long would he wait? Would he even ask again? Should she tell Bo? Maybe, eventually, but not this evening. This evening she was determined to let Bo do the talking.

* * *

"Whaddup?" Francine said around a mouthful of cookie as she plopped down next to Arthur.

It was breaktime during _Music Man_ rehearsal, and the two had taken respite in a couple of auditorium seats after grabbing some snacks. To Arthur's surprise, Francine had traded her script for her camera, which was strung around her neck.

"Not much," Arthur said. "So, I've, uh, noticed that you've been kind of…not angry lately."

"Not to make me sound like an emo kid or anything," she said sarcastically after downing a sip of water. "Jeez, Arthur."

"I just mean that you're taking things pretty well now. You know, after not getting the lead? I just thought you might still be—"

"Pissed off?" she said.

"Yeah, and—"

"Voicing my frustrations?"

He nodded. "And—"

"Plotting my revenge?"

He got really close and said in a low voice, "Kinda. Look, I just want to make sure everything's okay."

"You want to _know_ if I have a grand plan up my sleeve so you can step in and prevent it," she said with a knowing smirk.

"Kinda," he said again.

"What am I—eight?" she said, obviously wrangling her exasperation. "I've decided to be mature and approach this situation with a different outlook, closed door but opened window. Crap like that."

"Oh, yeah?" said Arthur. "What's the window?"

"I'm going to write one hella-awesome piece for _The Frensky Star_," she said with a gleam in her eye. "I'm thinking of calling it 'The Music Man: A Mill Creek Middle Production'. It's going to be an extensive behind-the-scenes look at what it takes to put on a musical, crammed full of so many details it might even become a serial. I'm including everything, from interviews with the cast and crew to candid photos, starting _now_."

Without warning she lifted her camera and took a picture, just as Arthur was stuffing his face with a cookie.

"Ah! Francine, the flash," he groaned.

"Sorry, but it's dark in here. So you see, with my blog, rehearsals, and shadowing Fern as her _understudy_," she said with a bitter emphasis on the word, "I won't even have time to be mad. You're safe to un-bunch your panties."

"That's a relief," Arthur said, then took a chance. "Do you have time for Pie-Bowl Saturday afternoon?" He was all too aware of how hopeful he sounded. "It seems like it's been forever."

Francine nodded. "Freakin' A. It has been forever. Let's do it. Want to go see _Deadlight_ and throw popcorn at the screen?"

"I was thinking more of a classic Pie-Bowl," he said, "where we actually eat pizza and go bowling?"

"That works for me too. Hey, while we're at Pizza Paula's, maybe you could help me brainstorm for—what the hell are you looking at?"

Arthur was distracted by Buster and Ladonna, standing close to each other at the edge of the stage, sporting goofy smiles while they talked. Francine followed his gaze.

"Oh, right," she said. "Are you still wigged out about that?"

"I wasn't wigged out about it," Arthur said defensively, "just surprised. I can't believe that's going to be a thing now."

"Nobody can," she said, patting him on the shoulder before hopping up. "Back to work! I'm going to ask Binky if he'd like to be my first interview. You're second, by the way."

And with that, Francine left Arthur alone.

* * *

_Okay, George. Less than two weeks until the Autumn Ball. Not a lot of time left. You can do this. I just hope she doesn't have a date already..._

As soon as Maria called for break, Sue Ellen had been at George's side, holding a handful of swatches in varying shades of red. He knew she had debated over which shade to paint the newly-completed Wells Fargo Wagon.

"Okay, George," she had said, plucking two swatches from the bundle, "it was difficult, but I think I've narrowed it down to a choice between 'Crimson Tide' and 'A Study in Scarlet'. I think it's only fair you give your opinion. Got a minute?"

"Can I get back to you in a sec?" he had said. "There's something I've got to do."

When he located her, Fern was sitting on a crate behind the curtain, speedily scribbling in the notebook that was propped open on her knees. Her face was intense, so close to the page George wondered if she could actually focus on the words she was writing.

_You've got this, man._

"Um, Fern. I've got a question for you."

"What is it?" she said in a hollow, dispassionate voice, looking up at him.

George gulped. He felt his knees begin to shake.

"Um… Will you check out some paint swatches with me and give Sue Ellen your honest opinion?"

Fern shrugged as she snapped her notebook shut. "Sure."

"I have a feeling you'll be partial to 'A Study in Scarlet', he said as she followed him to find Sue Ellen.

Yet another missed opportunity.

_Well, look on the bright side. You still have almost two weeks until the Autumn Ball. That's plenty of time left to ask her. Maybe…_

* * *

As Fern stood off stage left, watching Buster and George as they performed "The Sadder-But-Wiser Girl," she wondered if it was too late to drop out of the musical. They were three weeks away from showtime. She could certainly go through the motions and see it through. She just did not want to. She did not want to do anything anymore, definitely not something that required her to watch Buster and Ladonna fawn over each other when they were not acting on stage.

Perhaps she was being overly dramatic. There was one thing she wanted to do, but only one. She wanted to bury herself in _Around the Dark Corner_, only it was not called that anymore. She had changed her book's title to _Danger Girl_. Not only did this new title suit her protagonist better, it had a dark yet playful ring to it. Very Hiaasen-esque. She wanted to bury herself so deeply in her book and its creation that she did not have to face the real world. The real world, as well as its people, could be so disappointing. However, her stories never were. Her characters always did exactly what they were supposed to do. She was definitely being overly dramatic, but those were her sentiments all the same. Her stories would always be there for her, and it was time to give them the attention they deserved.

She needed to do far more practical research than she had initially anticipated; there were more places she needed to see, to experience, and not all of them were abandoned. Right now, she was training, working her way up to the top of Raccoon Hill, her Everest summit. She would get there soon, but first she needed to pay a visit to the hospital morgue. This excursion required careful planning, and she had thrown herself into the task over the past few days, figuring out what she needed to do, the exact role she needed to play to get away with this one. She was confident she would.

_Tomorrow after school_, Fern thought as she watched her crush continue to flail about on stage, _it's showtime._

_To be continued in another story…_

End of _The Haunted Love story_.

If you think you might be struggling with grief or mental illness, please, reach out to someone. Even if you feel there is no one you can trust, there are many local resources available for those in need, run by people who are more than willing to listen. Find a helpline or support group near you. You are not alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Story #5 in "A Different Point of View" is coming soon. That's the plan, anyway. Thanks for reading!


End file.
